Prologue:
Room 403 smelled of turpentine, blood orange, and something older—dust maybe, or regret.
Naomi dipped her brush in crimson, the color bleeding across the canvas like a wound. Outside, the city screamed its usual lullaby—car horns, drunken laughter, distant sirens. But here, in her borrowed sanctuary, everything was velvet-silent. Until she heard it.
A moan. Low. Drawn out. From the other side of the wall.
Then a second. A slap. A breathless laugh.
Naomi closed her eyes.
Room 405 was alive again.
The woman next door, Vera, had warned her: "This building isn't haunted. It's just full of people pretending not to be monsters."
Naomi smiled. She'd always liked monsters.
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