Zahra did not look at Room 313.
That alone terrified Caleb.
Everyone else did—guests, staff, even the cameras always drifted back to it, like gravity pulled their eyes. But Zahra walked the third-floor corridor as if the door didn't exist.
As if acknowledging it would be a mistake.
"You're assigning people to it now," she said calmly.
Caleb stopped walking. "You don't know that."
Zahra finally turned to him. Her gaze was sharp, measuring. "You didn't deny it."
The hallway lights buzzed softly.
Far too softly.
Caleb exhaled. "It rewards obedience."
Zahra nodded once. "Of course it does. That's how systems survive."
They stood a few feet away from Room 313. The door was closed. Silent. Listening.
Caleb lowered his voice. "You said you knew how to destroy it."
"I said I knew how to stop it," Zahra corrected. "Those are not the same thing."
Caleb clenched his jaw. "Then tell me."
Zahra hesitated.
For the first time since he'd met her, hesitation cracked her calm.
"It replaces people because it's broken," she said. "Something went wrong when it was made."
Caleb frowned. "Made by who?"
Zahra smiled faintly. "That doesn't matter."
The lights flickered.
Room 313's handle twitched.
Caleb noticed.
Zahra didn't.
"It's like a wound that never healed," she continued. "So it borrows. Faces. Roles. Watchers. That's you."
Caleb felt something twist in his chest. "And if it stops replacing?"
Zahra met his eyes. "Then it collapses."
The word hung there.
Collapsed buildings were understandable. Survivable.
Caleb nodded slowly. "That's it?"
Zahra looked away.
"That's enough," she said.
The lie slid between them, smooth and practiced.
The hotel reacted immediately.
The corridor temperature dropped.
A low groan vibrated through the walls—deep, distant, like something enormous shifting in its sleep.
Caleb turned toward the door.
Zahra grabbed his wrist.
"Don't," she snapped. "It wants you to look."
Caleb froze.
"What happens if I do?" he asked.
Zahra's grip tightened. "It reminds you why you're replaceable."
A scream echoed down the hallway.
Not from Room 313.
From the stairwell.
Caleb spun toward the sound.
A teenage boy stumbled out onto the third floor, eyes wide, chest heaving.
"I—I can't find my parents," he cried. "The doors keep changing."
Behind him, the stairwell door slammed shut.
The numbers on the wall warped.
312 became 313.
313 became 313.
Everything became 313.
The boy saw the door and ran toward it.
"No!" Caleb shouted.
Zahra moved faster.
She stepped in front of the boy and slapped her palm flat against the wall beside the door.
The screaming stopped.
The hallway snapped back to normal.
The boy collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
Caleb stared at Zahra. "What did you just do?"
She pulled her hand away slowly.
The paint beneath her palm had blistered black.
"I reminded it," she said quietly, "that I'm not reusable."
Room 313's door rattled violently.
A voice poured out—layered, furious, afraid.
"You don't belong."
Zahra leaned close to the door and whispered back:
"Neither do you."
The door went still.
Caleb's heart hammered. "You said it collapses if it stops replacing people."
Zahra looked at him.
This time, she didn't smile.
"That's what it wants you to believe," she said.
Caleb felt the weight of that sentence sink deep.
"You lied to me," he said.
Zahra nodded. "Yes."
"Why?"
She glanced at the boy, then back at Caleb.
"Because if you knew the real reason," she said softly,
"you'd never help me destroy it."
The lights stabilized.
The hotel breathed.
Room 313 waited.