Trapped in a secret hotel floor, a Hollywood producer finds his dead sister's recorder and uncovers his mentor's dark studio network
👉 Previous Choice: You chose to step back out onto the unnumbered floor to search the dark corridor using your phone light.
I stepped back into the icy blackness of the unnumbered floor, pulling the silver recorder from my coat pocket. The heavy metal elevator doors slid shut behind me with a pneumatic hiss.
My phone’s flashlight beam cut through the oppressive gloom. It illuminated damp drywall, peeling in places, with thick soundproof padding nailed over it in irregular squares. Room numbers were painted over in black ink, barely visible beneath the grime.
The air hung heavy, smelling of mildew, concrete dust, and something metallic. My heart hammered against my ribs, echoing in the unnatural silence.
I walked slowly, my footsteps muffled by the carpet. The corridor stretched for what felt like an eternity, but it was probably only fifty feet. At the end, a single door stood slightly ajar, with the faded remnants of “Suite 000” barely discernible.
I pushed the door open, my hand shaking slightly. The room inside was a small, windowless space, stark and functional. Against one wall, four grey filing cabinets stood.
My flashlight beam swept across the labels: “Maya Ruiz,” “Chloe Lane,” “Jessica Park.” Names of rising stars, young actresses I’d seen in industry magazines, stared back at me.
I opened the top drawer. Inside, neat rows of cassette tapes lay nestled, each labeled with a name. A small, handwritten note was taped to the inside lid: “42 tapes, total.”
A sudden, sharp beam of light hit my face from the doorway, making me flinch. My hand flew to shield my eyes.
“Julian,” a familiar voice said, steady and quiet.
I lowered my hand. Standing there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light, was Evelyn Zhao, Arthur’s chief assistant. She held a heavy metal master keycard in her hand.
She did not look surprised to see me.
➡️ Read Chapter 6 to continue the story
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