While secrets fermented behind closed doors, chaos had already begun to crawl through the hotel corridors.
It started with a whisper.
A reporter lingered near the lobby, phone angled just right, voice deliberately low but excited enough to draw attention. He said they had a scoop. Not just any scoop—one big enough to detonate before morning.
Someone nearby caught it. Another leaned closer. Then another.
Within minutes, the words spread like wildfire.
Something big was happening tonight.
The live stream had already started. The angle was messy, unsteady, but that only made it feel more real. The reporter never mentioned names. He didn't need to. He only said an artist—once wildly famous, recently returned after an accident—was inside Room 69. That a secret was about to be exposed. That a married man was involved. That a wife had been brought along to catch them in the act.
The implications alone were enough to make people's blood race.
