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Aventurine checks them in.

"Good evening," the receptionist warmly greets as she rhythmically types away on her keyboard, the sounds echoing through the empty lobby. Click-Clack. "How may I help you?"

"I have a reservation for tonight under the name of Aventurine, prepaid by the IPC." Aventurine's smile is serene as Ratio stands beside him, arms folded in patient anticipation. Ratio tunes out the relaxed conversation, fixating on the abstract painting behind the receptionist's head. Shining under the overhead lights, it follows a somewhat contemporary lyrical abstraction based on the vibrant rainbow clouds floating fluidly on their canvas sky. It's likely the work of a minor yet passionate artist, intriguing in the mystery of the painter. The bottom-right signature is almost obscured by the colors on the canvas, too small for Ratio to decipher from the other side of the receptionist's desk. If Ratio asks, will the receptionist be able to tell him who made the painting? She's still conversing with Aventurine, fingers flying across the keyboard as she confirms their room. Click-Clack.

"Excellent." The receptionist stops typing, fingers moving with practiced ease as she reaches beneath the desk to pull out a room card. It may be better to inquire about the mystery painter when they check out. Aventurine needs sustenance and rest before they meet with his superiors in the morning. 

"Here's your room card, you'll be in Room 1004," the receptionist informs Aventurine. "Please take the elevator on the left to the tenth floor. Your room will be on the right-hand side." Ratio mentally notes the tasks he has to complete before sleeping tonight: getting Aventurine to eat and sleep at a reasonable hour, planning lectures for his new students next week, reviewing his reports before the meeting tomorrow, and bathing away the grime from travel. Yes, morning would be far more appropriate for art inquiries. Aventurine thanks the receptionist as he accepts the card from her outstretched hand. 

"My pleasure, sir. Have a wonderful stay at the Verdure Residence." With a courteous nod, she returns to typing on her keyboard as Aventurine tucks the card into his inner breast pocket. Click-Clack. 

He turns to Ratio and gives him a winning smile. "Lead the way, Doctor."

Ratio sighs but obliges, leading them to the elevator as Aventurine laughs behind him. Hopefully, their booked room has a nice bathtub and efficient room service. Ratio can do his reviewing and planning in the bath while Aventurine eats.

__________

The hotel room is a beautiful, lavish indulgence Aventurine got on the IPC's dime. When they enter, Ratio heads straight to unpack as Aventurine marvels at the grandeur. 

When Aventurine draws back the floor-length curtains with an appreciative whistle, Ratio looks up, just a moment, to watch Aventurine's silhouette against the full-wall window. Here, beside the innermost bed Ratio has claimed as his own, Aventurine shines gold as he bathes in the cascading lights refracted by the overhead glass chandeliers. In the night's stillness, the Starskiffs' lights in Central Starskiff Haven resemble stars flocking around Aventurine like ardent fans greeting a celebrity.

Above, the just-risen full moon casts a luminous crown above Aventurine's noble-like head, shining like a halo against the velvety expanse of the night sky. Though Ratio cannot see Aventurine's face, he can imagine Aventurine's smile spreading across his lips, curling at the ends before parting like blossoms, revealing the pearly buds of his teeth as he's awestruck by the view. Before Aventurine can look back, Ratio goes back to unpacking.

"Look at that view, Ratio!" Aventurine exclaims, turning to Ratio with delighted anticipation. Ratio barely spares a cursory glance and a hum before he continues to rifle through his suitcase, already preparing for sleep. The view was beautiful. Ratio can hear Aventurine's sigh over the zipping of his suitcase. "I suppose I can appreciate the view from here, too," Aventurine pouts as he watches Ratio.

Ratio stops unpacking. "I intend to retire for the night," he declares. "If we wish to ensure optimal performance at tomorrow's meeting with your superiors, it is imperative that we both rest well. Many scientific studies recommend that adults sleep for at least seven hours a night."

After surveying Aventurine with a critical eye, Ratio continues, "Though, I advise you eat first, Aventurine. It has been nearly seven hours since your last meal. Neglecting food now could lead to unwanted discomfort tomorrow, such as stomachaches, irritability, and impaired focus."

Aventurine raises his arms in a gesture of surrender. Good, he's not a fool. Five points. "I'll try room service," he concedes, reaching for the hotel phone. Ratio starts preparing what he needs for his bath. He'll wait until after Aventurine eats something first.

Ratio is sorting out what he needs for his lesson plans when he hears Aventurine ask, "Do you think it's too late for room service?" 

Ratio shakes his head, sitting heavily on the inner bed. The receptionist would have informed them if room service were limited to specific times. "Most reputable hotels like this one offer full-time room service." 

Aventurine tilts his head to think. "I'll check the vending machine instead." He pats himself down for his wallet. "You want anything?" Ratio politely declines, rubbing his eyes with his middle finger and thumb as he lies down. He'll have to take a shower instead if Aventurine takes too long. Planning his students' lessons can wait until tomorrow morning; showering and reviewing the report take priority.

Aventurine nods and moves to open the door as Ratio rests momentarily on the bed. Ratio can hear Aventurine shuffling in the background, the metallic sound of a rattling doorknob, before Aventurine calls out, "I think it's locked."

Ratio is by his side in an instant. He jiggles the handle, pushes, pulls. Twists it left and turns it right. "I've tried that," Aventurine tells him, slightly miffed. "Is it jammed? Ratio, could you break open the door?" 

Ratio gives him a disapproving side eye. "Immediate destruction in unfamiliar situations is unwise."

Aventurine waves him off. "It's fine," he dismisses. "I'll pay for the damages."

Ratio scoffs. "Money can't solve all your problems, gambler," he retorts, but he nudges Aventurine aside and casts a Wiseman’s Folly to blast off the handle anyway. It falls to the ground with a resounding clatter as Ratio forcefully kicks the rest of the door open, causing it to slam against the exterior wall. 

He's on edge the moment the door opens. The hallway is empty, lamps off and lifeless as though choked out by the shadows. That's unusual, Ratio thinks, wary. Hotels often dim their lights, but total darkness is uncommon at best. The light from their hotel room shines like a beacon in the darkness, a massive streak of artificial yellow streaking across the carpet floor, bright and bold, as conspicuous as a crosshair. Silently, they both step into the vacant corridor. The flashlight on Aventurine's phone pierces through the darkness, illuminating a white, conoid path.

"Do you think there are others are trapped in their rooms like we were?" Aventurine's voice is barely louder than a whisper. 

"It's within the realm of possibility," Ratio replies in an equally low murmur. It feels too wrong to speak any louder.

They try all the rooms one by one, knocking on every door. No response. This isn’t normal, Ratio’s rationality warns in his ear, trailing a cautionary finger down his spine. It leaves an unsettling sensation in its wake. 

"Perhaps the walls are too soundproof?" Ratio can hear the uncertainty creeping into Aventurine's voice, slow and unbidden, lazily making room for anxiety to follow, feather-light presence scraping the backs of their arms as their hairs stand on end. Ratio readies another Wiseman's Folly in the unnatural silence.

Aventurine raises an eyebrow. “What happened to ‘immediate destruction in unfamiliar situations is unwise?’”

“In this scenario, it seems necessary.”

__________

The first room is empty.

(They don’t see the creature hidden in the shadows, clinging to the ceiling corner like a malevolent specter.)

The second room is not.

Aventurine enters first with his phone’s flashlight before freezing in the doorway. Ratio smells what’s inside the room before he sees it. Revolting in the quiet, the smell of blood and death hangs heavy in the air, thick and cloying as Ratio’s rationality grips his spine with bone-white knuckles and says this is wrong.

Ratio looks down from above Aventurine’s head, swallowing thickly to remove the metallic taste-smell of bitter copper and rusty iron. Chains. Cages. Thirty-five corpses, stacked like a rotting game of Jenga. Ratio recognizes the brands on the bodies and sees the same inky mark on Aventurine’s neck. He drags Aventurine, stiff-fingered and frozen, out of the room before slamming the door behind them.

There must be a reason, Ratio’s mind whirls. Aventurine stares unmoving at the closed door as the hollow slam echoes down the hallway. There must be a logical explanation. Whatever momentary respite they had is shattered by something falling onto Ratio’s head. Warm. Wet. They both look up. 

Drip. Above them, a monstrous creature looms, spindly limbs stretched across the ceiling like tangled spider webs, merging with the shadowy corners.

Drip. It's so flat against the ceiling it could be a second set of wallpaper if not for the skin that crawls across its body like it has a mind of its own, shifting and twisting as it glistens under the light of Aventurine's phone.

Drip. More of something falls from the ceiling as the creature's face begins to wetly peel like an infected wound. Slowly, it splits into an uncanny grin, saliva creating a wet sheen as razor-sharp teeth reveal themselves between its slithering flesh.

Drip. Its skin crawls across its face sluggishly as it knots together into repulsive lips.

They bolt for the staircase since the elevator won’t work without electricity, glass lamps shattering as the creature crawls after them on the ceiling. Slow and leisurely. Toying with its prey. Ratio reaches the door first, thrusting it open and pushing Aventurine through before slamming it shut behind them. They stand in silence, breathing ragged as they watch the window on the door with bated breath. Aventurine's hand is still from its death grip on his phone while Ratio is holding the door shut. Ratio recalls that the Ten-Lords Commission has reported numerous encounters with ghosts and spirits. Is this one of them? It matches none of the descriptors he’s read about in mythological catalogs.

An unhurried claw creeps down from above, shattering the silence with a tap on the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. The claw scrapes a thin trail down, like nails on a chalkboard. Scrape. Tap. Scrape. Ratio wonders if the creature was intentionally scraping out the morse code for “HI.” Three more claws join the first, reaching down to twist the handle in a lazy mockery of their previous actions. It jiggles the handle, pushes, pulls. Twists it left and turns it right. Ratio tightens his grip as Aventurine stays stock-still on the ground, flashlight never leaving the scratched pane.

Neither breathes as the claws withdraw, giving them a slow wave as they recede, lightly caressing the glass. In the deafening silence that follows, they can only listen to the faint shuffle of broken glass as the creature retreats as leisurely as it arrived, its presence lingering like the aftermath of a nightmare.

Aventurine is the first to break the silence. "What was that?" he asked, his voice a combination of trepidation and disbelief. 

This is wrong, Ratio’s rationality repeats as it paces anxiously on his spinal cord. This is not normal. Ratio's expression mirrors Aventurine's unease as he says, "Historically, the Ten-Lords Commission has encountered a myriad of ghosts and spirits. Namely, the preexisting sprites in the Fyxestroll Garden."

"However," Ratio continues, his grip still tight on the door handle, "it's highly unlikely for a reputable hotel chain like this one to be haunted. Though, not impossible." Ratio would not be a scholar if he dismissed possibilities that challenged his beliefs, especially not when evidence was scratched into the door. They both cast wary glances at the door, still bearing the marks from their recent encounter.

Aventurine runs his left hand through his hair in a futile attempt to calm his nerves, pacing back and forth in agitation. "But this is a hotel, and a high-end one at that. People pay to sleep here. Why would they jeopardize their reputation by offering a haunted hotel? It's absurd."

Ratio finally releases the door handle and starts descending the stairs. Their top priority is to leave. "If you have any complaints, you can take them up with management," Ratio suggests as he waits for Aventurine to follow. 

Aventurine huffs. "Maybe I will."

("The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing." — Socrates)

__________

The lobby door is locked. So is the door to the second floor, and the third, and the fourth.

The only door that works is the one leading to the ninth floor. Part of Ratio’s mind mocks him for clinging to any notion of reason in the face of the illogical. 

("So, definitely haunted, huh?"

"That's within the realm of possibility."

"What happened to 'highly unlikely,' Doctor?"

"'Highly unlikely' is within the realm of possibility. The Ten-Lords Commission believes there are hundreds, if not thousands of undocumented ghosts and sprites."

"Well, aren't we just lucky to have stumbled upon the one hotel that has them all?")

As they step through the door, it shuts silently behind them, locking them inside. They both eye the unmoving handle as Ratio futilely tries to plan against the unknown and paranormal. "There's a second staircase on the other end of the floor," Aventurine says as he tears his eyes away.

The second stairway door is also locked. The handle doesn't even dent when Ratio blasts it with a Wiseman's Folly. "Whatever has trapped us likely intends for us to face something on each floor," Ratio speculates, tension visible in the muscles on his back. It stings like a wound, to be so out of his depth. Ratio knows so much and yet is absolutely powerless to help them escape.

Aventurine grimaces. "What do you wager this floor is about then, Ratio?"

With a cool glance, Ratio replies, "I have no intention of gambling with you. However, in most Luofu dialects, the number 'nine' sounds remarkably similar to 'alcohol.' That may be pertinent."

Taking the lead, Ratio explores the ninth floor, using Aventurine's phone flashlight instead of his own to save the battery. Every door connects to a large, central room akin to a meeting room, complete with a company whiteboard and long table, dimly lit by the moon overhead. However, the sheer quantity of alcohol on said table would be enough to get any poor employee demoted. 

"Doctor, look. It appears you were right," Aventurine says, peeking over Ratio’s shoulder with a thin-lipped smile as he points towards the inauspicious twenty glasses lined neatly on the long table and the green-and-red doodles on the whiteboard.

Ratio nods, handing Aventurine's phone back and pointing to a long window running parallel to the length of the table, overseeing the meeting room. The room is likely a ploy by the supernatural. Ratio steps in first to prevent Aventurine from endangering himself in another of his reckless gambles. "Shine the flashlight through that window. I shall survey the situation."

The door shuts automatically as soon as Ratio enters, as he expected. Turning around, Ratio spots twenty dark drinks arranged neatly on the long table. As he takes a whiff, the sharp scent of alcohol slices through the stagnant air. Squinting at the whiteboard before him, illuminated by moonlight, Ratio can barely decipher twenty careless doodles of wine glasses—nine green and eleven red. Ratio exhales, a release of tension he hadn't realized he was holding. This is a game, a gamble—something tangible, governed by rules and probability. He can handle this.

"Ratio?" Aventurine calls, voice muffled through the wall. "Are you okay?"

Ratio watches as the flashlight sweeps across the room like a lighthouse’s beacon in the darkness, its artificial glow nearly blinding as Ratio stands in front of Aventurine. "Yes, Aventurine. I am unharmed. However, I believe I have identified the challenge presented on this floor."

Ratio gestures to the drinks and drawings. "There are nine drinks depicted in green, and eleven in red," Ratio elucidates. "Presumably, to exit this room safely, I must consume the nine that are deemed safe."

Aventurine smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He shines the flashlight towards the twenty drinks on the table, rims gleaming with foreboding light. "So what's the plan, Ratio?"

Ratio looks him in his tri-colored eyes and says, "Tell me what to drink."

(A first meeting. Three blanks.

Click, click, click.

"Life is a grand gamble, and I'll always be the final victor.”)

"Aventurine," Ratio insists, his gaze unwavering. "There is no logically determinable order for the drinks. You've always claimed to be the final victor, have you not? In that case, I trust you with my life, gambler." 

(The truth is, he does. For all that Aventurine defies logic, for all that his penchant for self-destructive gambits is unfathomable to Ratio, he always succeeds. It terrifies Ratio, sometimes, but the results are undeniable. 

Ratio would wholeheartedly place his life in Aventurine's hands, confident that Aventurine would never intentionally put him in harm's way. He wishes Aventurine would treat his own life with the same care.)

Ratio can see Aventurine’s smile twitch before his mask slides back into place. "Right, then. Let's see…" Aventurine looks at the glasses on the table, alcohol a poisonous, swampish black in his phone's dim, dusty lighting, before pointing to the first drink.

"How about that drink, two away from the whiteboard?"

Ratio downs it with no hesitation. Eight left.

"The one to its right, from my direction." Seven left.

"The purple one in the middle." Six left.

Five, four, three. Ratio is reluctantly impressed by how Aventurine's luck defies random probability. No wonder Aventurine has been banned from nearly eleven casino chains across the galaxy.

"The one on the opposite end of the table, near the corner." Ratio just finishes the cup when he feels something warm burning back up his throat. He chokes, the warm, metallic tang of blood heavy on his tongue as he kneels to the floor and gags.

"Ratio? Ratio. Veritas Ratio. Breathe, damn you, breathe. " Ratio vaguely registers Aventurine's panicked voice over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, pulsing like it’s trying to break out of his skull. He struggles to breathe, light-headed and dizzy as he spits blood and bile on the floor. Ratio can feel the wheezy exhale of his lungs, his throat burning from the mixture of blood and alcohol. 

He glances down at the blood beneath him, like a splatter of burgundy freckles on the face of the oyster white floor. It's dark, likely the result of tissue damage in his esophagus and digestive tract. It is potentially life-threatening, but the flow of blood from his mouth is gradually subsiding. It will have to be enough.

Ratio raises his arm to stop Aventurine from his near-hysterical blabber. "I'm fine," he rasps, feeling the wheeze of his lungs in the pressure on his chest. He wipes his mouth with the side of his hand, leaving a dark red streak in its wake.

"Which one, Aventurine?"

Aventurine lets a slow breath out of his mouth and turns the flashlight in his right hand to shine on the remaining thirteen drinks.

"The one behind the poisoned one you drank." Two left. The alcohol stings his raw throat as it slides thickly down his esophagus.

"The drink in the middle, to the left of the sixth one you drank." One left. Ratio can feel the phlegm and blood on the back of his throat, sticky in his lungs. He’ll need to cough it out soon.

"The drink near the blueish-green one on the far right." The door swings open when Ratio finishes the last drink, and he stumbles through, staggering into Aventurine’s arms.

Aventurine opens his mouth, closes it. Carefully, he swipes a thumb at the blood on Ratio's mouth.

"Aventurine, I am fine," Ratio says again. Aventurine looks unconvinced. Ratio puts his shaking hands on Aventurine's shoulders. Orange-gold looks at pinkish-blue. "Aventurine," Ratio insists again, softer. "I am alive."

Ratio's head pounds to the beat of his heart. The sickly wheeze of his lungs echoes in the still silence. 

("Chance governs all." — Cicero)

__________

The lobby door is still locked. So is the door to the second floor, and the third, and the fourth.

Just like before, the only door that works is the one leading to the eighth floor. Another part of Ratio’s mind proposes that this is the reason within the illogical. 

Oddly, when Aventurine shines his flashlight through the hallway, all the doors are already wide open, moonlight filtering into the hallway with a soft white-blue glow. Ratio is considering the potential spirits and ghosts he’s read about when something large and hairy lumbers around the corner. Ratio shoves Aventurine down without hesitation, and they huddle together near the already-locked stairway door. The beast ambles forward until it's mere meters away, then stops. Ratio holds his breath to mask the wheezing in his lungs while Aventurine exhales into his hand, silencing the noise as he covers the hot brightness of his flashlight with his palm.

Two more beasts turn the corner, their eyes opening to reveal hundreds of gaping orbital cavities.

Ratio barely remembers to hold his breath when he sees the creatures are blind. Fear holds him in its vice-like grip, whispering paranoia into his ear as he stares at the atrocities within the beasts’ eye sockets. Worm-like entities coil inside, nestled against the bone; their thin, dense hairs feathered out like mutant growths of mold. In the remaining watery eyeballs, the vermiform creatures encircle the half-liquid orbs, squeezing them so they ooze like runny eggs and consuming the eye-apple runny yolk whole. 

(Ratio has always feared blindness. Whether it manifests as intellectual blindness in the form of ignorance or physical blindness with unseeing eyes, the thought of losing his sight terrifies him. There is so much to see, so much to know, so much to show. There are galaxies of knowledge he has yet to obtain, libraries of books he has yet to read, and thousands of students he has yet to teach.

Logically, Ratio knows that there are alternative methods to access and disseminate knowledge without sight, like braille, oral recollections, and video and audio recordings. But fear isn't always rational, is it?)

As the monsters draw closer, the entities in their eye sockets extend their feathery tendrils towards Aventurine's face, reaching beneath Ratio’s arms like eager parasites seeking their next victim. Ratio can no longer hold his breath, slowly removing a hand from the wall to silence his exhale. The wheeze of his lungs slashes through the silence like a death rattle. Instantly, all three beasts snap their heads up, their gaping mouths revealing rows of gummy, wet teeth as they charge towards Ratio. 

There’s no time. Pushing Aventurine out of harm's way, Ratio strikes one of the beasts in its many eyes with a Wiseman's Folly. It flings one of the worms squirming to the floor before being crushed by a hairy foot with a sickening squelch.

"Run," Ratio commands Aventurine with bloodstained lips as the beasts converge on him.

Ratio feels cold dread settling in his gut as the worms reach out towards him, their thin hairs brushing feather-like against his cheek. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart pounds on the back of his skull, desperate and loud. Ratio vainly hopes to die before the worms invade his eyes, but he knows it must happen if Aventurine is to stand any chance of survival.

He unwillingly opens his eyes to look at Aventurine, still crouched where Ratio pushed him like a damned fool. Ratio opens his mouth to yell at him to go, dammit, as a beast lunges forward to tear Ratio's arm from its socket.

Aventurine casts a Fortified Wager, barely shielding Ratio in time before yanking him away. Together, they sprint for the second staircase, Aventurine setting an alarm on his phone and hurling it to the other end of the hallway. The piercing ringtone sounds like an auditory grenade in the quiet, drawing the beasts' attention away from their vulnerable figures.

Before they can stumble blindly into the path of a fourth beast, Ratio fumbles out his phone, swiping on the flashlight. They veer into the narrow stairway, hastily closing the door behind them as the beast slams into the wall where they had just been moments prior.

Backs pressed against the door, Ratio coughs quietly into his shaking fist as the fourth beast wanders to join the others surrounding Aventurine's phone. They are alive. Ratio isn't blind. The mucilaginous sound of phlegm in his cough is thick and wet as it rises above the wailing of Aventurine's ringtone, which pierces through the air before cutting out with a deathly finality.

(“There is no such thing as paranoia. Your worst fears can come true at any moment.” ― Hunter S. Thompson)

__________

They try the other doors again. Neither of them is surprised when none of them budge nor when the seventh-floor door locks behind them. Both parts of Ratio’s mind debate whether reason within the illogical can truly be considered reasonable.

(Ratio cannot tell if his internal debates are the first signs of insanity or merely a coping mechanism in the face of what he does not understand. Perhaps they are a blend of both.)

This floor, every room proudly boasts full-wall windows, bathing the interior with the ethereal glow of the full moon. The moon shines so brightly that they don't even need to use Ratio's phone to see. Ratio glares at the sky, the stars winking as though they're in on this cosmic joke.

They're walking through the small doors, Ratio in front and Aventurine behind, despite Aventurine’s insistence on the reversal. When Ratio opens the next door to Room 741, his heart lurches in his chest. There, sprawled in a macabre tableau of crimson, lies Aventurine, lifeless in a pool of blood. Instinct drives Ratio forward before his rationality can stop him, his mind a cacophony of conflicting urges. Check for a pulse. Assess the wound. Administer CPR if needed, one voice insists, while another, fueled by paranoia, screams to hold back. Wait. It may not be Aventurine.

Ratio ignores the latter, rushing to Aventurine's body. Yet even as he goes to search for signs of life, his ears are ringing with the sound of alarms. He was behind you, whispers his paranoia. That is not Aventurine. Move away, damn you, and leave this imposter to die. 

But what if it is? “Aventurine?” Ratio calls as he checks for a pulse.

As soon as Ratio crouches beside Aventurine's motionless body, a sudden, wet lurch shatters the eerie stillness. The body lunges, movements stiff with rigor mortis as its fingers curl around Ratio's throat, nails digging into the flesh of his arms and leaving bright red trails in their wake. 

"Join me," the impostor hisses as it rots before Ratio's eyes, melting face a ghastly mockery of humanity. Run, screams Ratio's paranoia as he stares into the impostor's once-vibrant tri-toned irises, the same cloudy gray-white as the moon outside. Run, you fool. But the other part of him, the part that has tried and long since given up on denying Aventurine anything, pleads to wait, just a moment, wait.

Ratio remains frozen, suspended between action and indecision, the unnaturalness of the reanimated corpse leaving him reeling long enough for the corpse to tighten its chokehold. The stench of rot is so heavy in the air that Ratio can taste it on his tongue as the imposter moves, the vile flavor mixing with the blood still coating the edges of his teeth.

It takes a maggot, wiggling out of not-Aventurine’s face like a finger poking through film for Ratio to finally react. With a soft apology murmured under his breath, Ratio strikes the imposter square in the chest with a Wiseman's Folly. Instantly, not-Aventurine's visage shifts, fleshing out to appear whole-healthy-alive as it gives Ratio a look so wounded he falters.

"Ratio, how could you?" the imposter accuses as Ratio's body acts almost separately from his mind, freezing once again even as his paranoia shouts to get the hell away, kill it, run. The imposter takes advantage of Ratio's internal conflict and punches him in the left lumbar. 

In retaliation, Ratio hurls not-Aventurine into the room across the hallway with a flying projectile. This time, Ratio doesn't give the imposter another chance to trick him. He doesn't trust himself to speak as he casts a Syllogistic Paradox and waits for the corpse on the ground to stop moving.

He waits for Aventurine at the second set of stairs. When Aventurine arrives, Ratio doesn’t miss the bruises forming on his neck nor the blood staining his fingertips.

"You shouldn't touch them," Aventurine uselessly warns. "They'll try to kill you."

Ratio can't look him in the eyes. "I know."

(“Ratio, how could you?” will haunt him in his nightmares; the rotting not-corpse will choke him in his sleep. But, the real Aventurine is alive and well, and that is all Ratio can ask for.)

Aventurine reaches out to touch him, but Ratio cannot suppress his flinch. All he can see is the lifeless body beneath him; all he can feel is the weight of guilt for killing something that looks like the man beside him.

When they pass by Room 742, Ratio wonders what Aventurine thought as he saw his own corpse bleeding out on the ground.

(“Logic is one thing, the human animal another. You can quite easily propose a logical solution to something and at the same time hope in your heart of hearts it won’t work out.” ― Luigi Pirandello)

__________

The other doors still don’t work, but they check them anyway. Ratio’s mind refutes itself by countering that even the illogical require a logical basis for existence.

On the sixth floor, every room is filled with books, spines shining in the moonlight. Ratio feels himself easing into a sense of reassurance. Books, knowledge, papers—these are his domain, his beloved allies in navigating the unknown. They have yet to lead him astray. Ratio sifts through the shelves, looking for anything to explain their situation. Even in his haste, Ratio moves with an almost delicate touch, gently gliding his finger across the familiar leather of book covers as he treats each repository for knowledge with scholarly care. He settles on a book titled "Ghosts of Disaster: Understanding the Paranormal in Catastrophic Events," and begins to read.

"As recounted by survivors of calamitous events, numerous reports detail supernatural occurrences within enclosed indoor spaces," Ratio says aloud. Aventurine leans in to hear better.

"These reports describe sudden and inexplicable gusts of wind or violent drafts, a phenomenon that frequently coincides with the outbreak of unexplained fires," Ratio continues. As he mentions the winds and flames, a chilling draft swirls through the room, contradictory to the slow heat building beneath their feet. The smell of something burning fills the air. Cold dread tightens its grip around Ratio’s spine, curling tighter with every word he reads.

"Ratio," Aventurine cautions. "Ratio, stop."

Ratio doesn't put the book down; he can't put the book down. When he tries to, Ratio only reads faster, fingers tense around the pages, crimping the edges of the thin paper into spiderweb crinkles.

"The simultaneous manifestation of these phenomena presents a confounding puzzle for the Ten-Lords Commission," Ratio reads on, words falling unbidden from his mouth. Stop, stop, stop, his mind pleads, but the floodgates of his mouth have already been opened, and there is nothing he can do to close them. "Consider this scenario: an unassuming room is suddenly consumed by flames with no discernible cause. Strikingly, witnesses often report such fires alongside anomalous drafts or gusts of wind within the affected area." The chill in the room has turned into a visible gale, raising the growing flames like a conductor encouraging an orchestra to forte. Scorch marks are forming along the walls, burnt black streaks like an abstract charcoal painting, expanding as its fiery artist adds new strokes to the walls with every passing second.

"Ratio, put the book down," Aventurine demands, casting a Fortified Wager. Aventurine's shields can't save them from the burn. Ratio can feel the heat lazily curling under his feet, the metal of his open-toed shoes warming dangerously as he vainly tries to close the book. They're running out of time.

"The correlation between these phenomena amplifies the mystery surrounding their origin and nature." Ratio reads, voice straining as he tries to stop. No, no, no, chants a part of his mind. This is the desecration of knowledge. "The co-occurrence of these events often leads to dire consequences, with many cases resulting in—"

Aventurine yanks the book out of Ratio's hands and throws it into the waiting fire before Ratio can kill them both. Instantly, the flames and winds disappear as though nothing ever happened, save for the charred book on the floor and the scorches on the walls. They look around the almost-destruction, smoke still sticking to the backs of their throats. 

The co-occurrence of these events often leads to dire consequences, with many cases resulting in fatalities, Ratio finishes grimly in his mind. The realization hits him like a sledgehammer—he could have, would have, ended up killing them both. A bitter, heart-clenching sense of betrayal washes over him as he stares at the charred remnants of paper and leather still smoking on the floor. Not even knowledge is sacred; something in him despairs as whatever is left of his desperate grip on reason trembles. He clings pathetically to the uncertainty left amidst the wreckage of his shattered beliefs because that is all he has left.

Aventurine clears his throat. "Next floor?" he asks, tone light as he steps out of the room as though Ratio didn't nearly burn them alive. Ratio waits just a moment before he follows, foot crushing the blackened remains of the book beneath him.

("A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. So is a lot." — Albert Einstein)

__________

Only the fifth floor is unlocked. A part of Ratio’s mind proposes that the lobby door would unlock, but only when they do not check it. The rest of his mind, including Ratio himself, find this theory both irritating and intriguing.

The first door they open reveals a pale little girl in a plain white dress, illuminated by a single, flickering lightbulb of questionable origin. Normally, Ratio finds himself quite amenable with children; after all, they are the most impressionable and adaptable age group to teach.

"Hi there, misters!" she chirps, her innocence a stark contrast to the horrors they’ve encountered prior. Ratio fights the irrational urge to flee as the girl skips over to him. Ratio must wait; he must observe and gather information and meticulously craft a plan before taking action. He cannot act hastily and jeopardize their safety.

The girl tugs Ratio's hand until he rigidly leans down so she can talk in his ear. 

"Can I have your laurel, mister?" she asks in a loud whisper, teeth gleaming in the flickering light. Ratio wordlessly complies, and she giggles gleefully as she twirls with the laurel, glinting like golden leaves in the branches of her arms. 

She might be a ploy, a part of his mind speculates, reluctant to consider the child a threat. Perhaps she's a distraction, masking the true test lurking on the floor. The girl stops twirling, still giggling as she playfully bounces over to Aventurine and tugs him down. 

"Can I have that ring, mister?" she asks, voice lacking any attempt at subtlety as she points to one of the many rings Aventurine has on his right hand. He surrenders it without protest. The girl outright laughs as she holds the ring to the singular lightbulb, admiring the wary glint of metal.

Then, with a little hop, the girl turns to address them both, clasping her hands behind her back in guile naivety. "Hey misters," she drawls, elongating the 'i,' "Can one of you get my doll from Room 513?" 

Before Ratio can even react, Aventurine has already volunteered with a disarming smile. As Ratio stands to stop him, Aventurine only gives him a slow, deliberate once-over. Who has better defense? Aventurine seems to challenge silently as the girl impatiently fiddles in the corner of Ratio's vision. He reluctantly sits back down, apprehension tightening around his throat like a vice as he watches Aventurine leave with an ominous sense of finality.

It doesn't make sense, Ratio thinks, as his mind races with suspicion. The doll seems too obvious a threat. But if not the doll, then what? Is he overanalyzing, clinging too tightly to logic? Or is the doll merely a distraction, like the girl?

Beside him, the girl hums a light, tuneless song reminiscent of the children Ratio occasionally teaches basic mathematics to at the elementary school near Veritas Prime. Despite his suspicions and his worry that the girl may be a threat, he cannot help but only consider her a distraction, a decoy designed to divert their attention from the true horror that awaits. After all, how can Ratio possibly entertain such thoughts when he has spent countless hours patiently guiding children her age through the fundamentals of addition and subtraction, receiving hand-written, poorly made thank you cards in return?

Aventurine returns, handing the girl her doll as she beams with gratitude, lips stretched just a little too wide. "Thank you so much, mister!" she beams, moving so close that she's nearly treading on Aventurine's feet. With icy certainty, Ratio knows that something is wrong.

"Can I have your eyes, mister? They're just so pretty!" the girl wheedles as she grabs the front of Aventurine’s shirt to tug him down. Ratio internally swears. He was a fool, too compliant and too confident in his assumptions to realize the true danger was right here this whole time.

"They're contacts," Aventurine lies as Ratio wracks his brain for something to do that would divert the little girl's attention away from Aventurine. "I can get you a spare after I leave the hotel."

The girl pouts. "That'll take too long," she groans before she sets her unsettling gaze back on Aventurine. "How about I take your nails instead?"

Aventurine opens his mouth, but the girl interrupts him. "Or maybe your toes?" There's something off about her smile now, even though her face hasn't changed. There's something sharper to it, though that might be the shadows flitting across her face, clinging to the edges of her cheekbones and sockets like birds would a branch. She glances over to Ratio, who desperately tries to think of a loophole. "I wouldn't mind if it's from that mister either."

Ratio can only stare as the little girl looks back at Aventurine, her smile not even trying to look human anymore as it stretches too wide, revealing the fleshy insides of her cheeks as they're almost pushed inside out. "How about one of you give me your skin? Your bones? Your blood? Your—" 

Now. Ratio spits blood on the floor next to the girl's feet.

"That is my blood," Ratio says, running his tongue over red-tinged teeth as he hopes that it is enough. "May we leave now?"

The little girl gives a childish pout as she glares at the bloodstain on the floor. "Fine," she relents with an airy little sigh before guiding them through the unlit hall to the opened stairway.

When she closes the door behind them with a light wave, Aventurine turns to Ratio. "I thought the doll was going to kill us," he admits.

Ratio hums in agreement. "It appears that the ghosts are capable of utilizing red herrings."

They softly laugh together on the staircase before they continue their descent.

(“It is unwise to be too sure of one's own wisdom. It is healthy to be reminded that the strongest might weaken and the wisest might err.” ― Mahatma Gandhi)

__________

Every other door is still locked, locked, locked. The fourth floor it is. Ratio’s mind starts to debate whether consistency within the unreasonable is truly reasonable. Ratio himself is interested in the answer as well.

When they step across the threshold, two doors yawn open, one on either side of the hallway. They slide, backs against the wall, towards the door on the left, Aventurine in front despite Ratio's silent protests. As soon as Aventurine reaches the doorframe, Ratio is shoved back by the slamming door, pushing him straight into the second open room. Ratio rattles the locked doorknob in frustration before he looks around the room. He needs to take stock of his situation and find a solution, or he will never be able to help Aventurine. 

A full-length mirror stands in the center of the tiny room, and the lamp atop a nearby nightstand makes the silver edges shine with unpropitious foreshadowing. Ratio braces himself, readies a Wiseman’s Folly, and steps in front of the mirror. His battered reflection stares back at him, purpling bruises marring his neck and vibrant scratches adorning his arms. He notices the slight tilt in his posture and licks at the dried blood staining the corners of his lips. Ratio momentarily mourns his missing laurel. 

Suddenly, his reflection raises an eyebrow. Ratio freezes at the unnatural movement. He watches stares as his reflection's face splits into a self-assured grin.

"And so the true nature of your predicament reveals itself," the reflection taunts, tone dripping with smug arrogance. "Tell me, oh Mundanite, have you been accepted by Nous yet?"

Ratio ignores the reflection's jab and says nothing. He must discern whether this reflection truly mirrors himself or is merely an imposter bearing his likeliness.

Leaning in closer, the reflection continues, its voice laced with a hint of disdain. "You cling too desperately to your humanity, Veritas Ratio," it sneers. "It shackles you in your pursuit of truth." 

Something in Ratio's gut roils as he reluctantly recognizes the reflection. It is the part of him that he despises, the part that disgusts him, the part that he has sworn he will never accept nor allow to see the light of day.

"You deny your true nature," the reflection asserts as orange-gold looks at orange-gold, shining in the dim lamp light. "You waste your intellect on the unenlightened masses and distance yourself from your intellectual equals out of false obligation to cure the ignorance of humanity."

(And isn't that the hook, line, and sinker? Ratio could never resist an intellectual debate, especially against ideologies so contrarian to his own.)

Ratio stands a little straighter as he responds with conviction. "Humanity hold greater value than the endless pursuit of knowledge. What good is truth without humanity to appreciate it?"

The reflection narrows its eyes. "But are you truly motivated by altruism, seeking to uplift humanity's intellect, or do you seek companionship out of vanity? Are you merely attempting to create an artificial equal to stave off the isolation that accompanies genius?" 

(Ratio is keenly aware of his own flaws. At best, he is a difficult man to get along with. He is blunt, sometimes rude, and does not entertain the niceties of social etiquette. His genius isolates him from the masses, and ideological conflict prevents him from joining the Genius Society.)

Ratio's thoughts involuntarily drift to pink-blue eyes and blonde hair. "One's intellect does not determine their worth as an equal. My desire for companionship does not impede my pursuit of truth."

The reflection gives a derisive scoff. "You are far too obstinate, clinging to your humanity like your gambler clings to his chips. Your name may be Veritas, but you show little regard for the purest pursuit of truth. Nous will never accept you like this."

Ratio resolutely crosses his arms. "My name does not dictate my identity. That is the fallacy of equivocation, as you are well aware." He steps closer to the mirror, voice unwavering as he says, "If gaining Nous's approval requires sacrificing my humanity, then I have no interest in it. I will not allow my pursuit of truth to consume me, as it has countless others before."

Locked in a silent standoff, they glare at each other, neither willing to back down.

"I vehemently disagree with you," the reflection declares as the door opens behind Ratio. "But I would be as foolish as your students should I deny a perspective I disagree with. If neither of us is open to changing our beliefs, perhaps this debate has reached its end."

(And really, that only reinforces the reflection's argument. Ratio is so insufferable to deal with that even the worst parts of his own self cannot stand it.)

Exiting the room, Ratio finds Aventurine waiting for him outside, leaning quietly against the wall. The debate may have ended in a stalemate, but Ratio knows he has come out on a loss. It's the most unsettling realization Ratio has confronted here—not the specter of the paranormal, the nightmare of killing Aventurine, or even the betrayal of knowledge. No, the true horror lies in Ratio knowing he can become the man in the mirror.

They walk in silence to the second staircase.

(“It is not for me to judge another man's life. I must judge, I must choose, I must spurn, purely for myself. For myself, alone.” ― Herman Hesse)

__________

The only door they can open is still on the third floor. Ratio’s mind is still caught in its intellectual debate. He feels like he’s going mad.

Shops line the walls, shrouded in darkness save for the feeble moonlight outlining faint silhouettes of brand names. Rows of shelves stood like silent sentinels, their products gleaming under the sterile glow of Ratio's phone flashlight. Dust motes drift lazily through the still air, caught like criminals in the artificial beam of light. The occasional signs and posters hung limply on the walls, their messages irrelevant in the absence of bustling crowds. The checkout counters stood deserted, conveyor belts motionless as they waited vainly for customers who would never come. 

As Ratio and Aventurine tread cautiously through the desolate floor, Ratio's light flickered over the abundant offerings, illuminating jewelry that shimmered like forbidden treasure. They enter a random jewelry store, Aventurine leaving a stack of credits on the table, plucking a ring off a bedazzled model hand to replace the one he lost. The shadows of the jewelry models seemed to twitch when Ratio shone the light at them, their featureless faces obscured in the gloom, not-gazes following their every movement.

Ratio's mind races as he considers what they will have to face next. Being on the shopping floor, it's reasonable to assume that their next encounter might involve the products around them. But what exactly? His gaze darts around the deserted shops. Jewelry, souvenirs, clothing. The only thing that the stores have in common is—

"Ratio, the mannequins," Aventurine whispers urgently, pointing towards the finely-dressed models. As if acknowledging their defeat, mannequins from the jewelry store move at once, fabric rustling as the displays in the clothing stores join to follow. The model hand at Aventurine's side grabs blindly for his arm, but Ratio rips it away as the lifeless forms converge under the cover of the shadows. When Ratio shines the flashlight at the mannequin closest to them, it freezes in its full-length aquamarine dress, arms outstretched like a damsel in distress. There. A weakness.

"We need to keep them in sight," Ratio warns, his flashlight sweeping across the growing horde. 

"What if we blink with one eye at a time?" Aventurine suggests as they edge around the bikini-wearing mannequin blocking the entrance. Ratio shakes his head as he systematically swerves his flashlight to watch the mannequins on both ends of the floor. The mannequins shuffle closer.

"Impractical. One of us will have to watch the mannequins regardless," Ratio points out as they edge across the wall, still figures blocking the path to the stairway. "The other will have to guide us through the dark."

While Ratio stares down the advancing horde, he catches the subtle movement of Aventurine shifting in his peripheral. "We can survive the fall from the third floor, right?" Aventurine asks, die in hand, poised to shatter the window across from them. The mannequins creep closer as they press against a traditional Luofu clothing display wall. Ratio opens his mouth to respond, but the damned gambler has already thrown the die, hitting the window with a reverberating thud, not even a crack left in its place. 

Aventurine swears as the mannequins take advantage of the distraction to try and run, closing in around them like a staggering film as Ratio whips the flashlight around. They're surrounded, with the mannequins further in the dark shuffling closer like a wood-metal-plastic wall. Ratio blasts one in half, but its separate body parts start crawling towards them, uncaring of how its head is still rolling on the floor.

"Alternatively, we use their bodies as barricades," Ratio suggests, kicking the half-torso away as they sprint for the stairway five stores down. The sound of hundreds of feet follows them as Ratio keeps his flashlight trained on the mannequins behind them, freezing the ones that get too close. Aventurine guides them through the stores with a tight grip on Ratio's hand, jewelry, clothing, and souvenirs blurring in their peripherals as they sprint. Some mannequins collapse with a hollow thud, crushed underfoot as they crawl after them instead. 

As Ratio slammed the stairway door shut behind them, the bottleneck formed by the mannequins became a cacophony of chaos. Ratio's flashlight freezes the ones in front as the ones in the back start breaking each other apart to get to the duo, limbs tearing apart limbs as like destroys like, single-mindedly targeting the only warm-blooded creatures on the floor. There's the sound of metal snapping akin to breaking bones, as the wooden thud of bodies collapsing echoes down the staircase, plastic nails scraping at the bottom of the door like a pawing predator. Aventurine and Ratio don't move, don't stop holding the door closed or turn off the flashlight until all they can see is the piled-up crushed limbs of the mannequins at the door. When the scratching-snapping-breaking stops, the sounds haunt the following silence like a nightmarish echo.

(“Beware of being too rational. In the country of the insane, the integrated man doesn’t become king. He gets lynched.” ― Aldous Huxley)

__________

Ratio watches Aventurine give the lobby door a half-hearted push. Locked. Ratio’s mind starts debating the validity of the fifth-floor theory as the duo make their way to the second floor. As soon as they enter, the atmosphere crackles with hostility, the very essence of the floor seeming to rise against them as the massive kitchen comes to life. 

Without any preamble or subtlety, the kitchen engages in what can only be described as culinary rebellion. The ovens ignite with a sinister glow, lighting the entire floor as they open up on their own, flames dancing in celebrative anticipation of their new victims. Cupboards open as plates, racks, and cutting boards are hurtled through the air with deadly precision. They corral Aventurine and Ratio like two misbehaving sheep, herding them towards the waiting mouths of the searing ovens. As the duo sprints away from the blasting heat, knives float from the drawers, hovering menacingly in the air as they move with no hands to guide them, slashing at the unexpected intruders with righteous fury.

As they passed by the kitchen storage, the massive industrial fridges began to hum ominously, doors swinging wide to reveal rotting, putrid foods emitting frothy bubbles as they ooze across the floor to greet them. Near the back wall, the live octopus and crustaceans writhe in their tanks, tentacles and claws surging out to drown the duo in the salty, dark depths.

Is this a poltergeist? Ratio wonders before he quickly refutes that idea as they sprint away from a mutant growth of vegetables, vines and tendrils snaking across the floor to trap and swallow them whole. He can hear Aventurine punting a particularly zealous eggplant as Ratio swats away an aggressive radish.

When forks, spoons, and chopsticks begin to fly through the air like homing missiles, Ratio mentally gives up on rationalizing the situation entirely. Aventurine is barely able to cast a Fortified Wager as they flee. Ratio throws his own projectile back out of spite, tossing down a Mold of Idolatry to taunt the flying utensils as they narrowly avoid being stabbed by a wayward knife.

When the massive pots near the second staircase boil with water and sizzle with oil, Ratio feels nothing but weary resignation. As the pots began to toss their bubbling contents at Aventurine and Ratio's faces, Aventurine grabs one of the plates flying through the air and uses it to block the hot liquids, hissing when stray droplets streak down his arm. Ratio lunges for the exit, knocking the pots down with a well-placed kick. Aventurine slips through the door, Ratio right behind him as they roll, narrowly avoiding the effervescent oil leaking through the door. 

They gasp for breath as a knife aggressively attacks the handle outside. But alas, without thumbs, the knife cannot open the door.

"I'll just get something to eat tomorrow," Aventurine pants between breaths. Ratio nods in tired agreement. That will have to suffice.

(“Common sense, however it tries, cannot avoid being surprised from time to time.” ― Bertrand Russell)

__________

As they finally step into the lobby, the stairway doors slam shut behind them, the loud thud echoing ominously in the empty space. Ratio’s mind whirls as it thinks of all the possible threats and the impossible made probable. Is it the receptionist? The furniture? Will the walls open up to swallow them whole?

(Distantly, a part of Ratio's mind scoffs at the absurdity of the situation. Yet, reluctantly, it acknowledges the futility of applying logic to the illogical.)

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by Aventurine’s grip on his hand, a momentary reassurance as they both scan the room for any sign of danger.

Ratio leans down. "Shall we try to leave?" he murmurs into Aventurine's ear as he eyes the open path to the door. No visible obstacles will prevent them from leaving, though that does not bring Ratio any sense of comfort. With a nod, Aventurine wraps an arm around Ratio's neck, warm-soft-different from the not-corpse on floor seven, and whispers into his ear. "Should we run for it?" 

Ratio's gaze sweeps across the room. The furniture in the lobby is sparse, and the overhead chandeliers are far too dangerous should they fall. He nods. "The open lobby leaves us too vulnerable. It's better to stay near the exit, should we need to flee at a moment's notice." 

Aventurine takes a deep breath and braces himself. "On three then?" Ratio nods again.

"One…" Aventurine creates a Fortified Wager, defending them from the unknown.

"Two…" Ratio shifts, preparing a Wiseman's Folly. 

"Three!" They sprint for the exit, their footsteps reverberating through the corridor. But just as Aventurine reaches for the door handle, a slow, long creak pierces through the air. They freeze. The furniture is genuinely going to rebel again, one part of Ratio's mind cries in disbelief. Do not be foolish. The hotel has yet to repeat its horrors, another part counters. 

Aventurine stacks another Fortified Wager as a third set of footsteps echoes loudly through the lobby. Ratio already has his chalk in hand, poised to throw at whatever was hiding in the dark.

"You cannot leave without checking out," a figure intones, its bland employee's clothing turning it into some parody of a human being. It charges at them, arms outstretched like twin blunt claws as it emerges from the shadows. From a distance, it almost looks human. Aventurine tightens his grip on Ratio's hand and they bolt for the nearest corridor. 

Ratio pulls them into the bathroom, and they catch their breaths in the cramped confines of a bathroom stall, their hearts pounding. "You cannot leave without checking out," the creature intones again, so convincingly human and much closer than before. With bated breath, they wait as its light footsteps tapped out rhythmic clacks on the tile floor. 

Slowly, Ratio inches towards the exit, gesturing for Aventurine to follow. They move together, backs to the wall as they wait in tense anticipation, muscles coiled like springs, ready to release at the slightest provocation. 

Clack, clack, clack. The rhythmic clacks of footsteps draw nearer, the sound echoing ominously in the enclosed space. They brace themselves, ready to act, and then—

And then—

Standing before them is a plain and ordinary man with brown hair and brown eyes in a bland employee's outfit. Besides the malicious intent in the man's eyes, he looks like eight students Ratio has taught in the University of Veritas Prime. His nametag glinting in the moonlight reflected from the bathroom mirror, the metal proudly displaying the name MICHAEL in giant, bold print. Ratio has taught four Michaels in Veritas Prime. They were all terrible students.

The hotel truly doesn’t repeat its horrors, Ratio wryly thinks as his body is still frozen in absolute incredulity. Is that not logic within the illogical?

"You cannot leave without checking out," Michael insists, presumably the horror of customer service. Ratio hurls him across the room with a flying projectile before he can punch Aventurine in the face. Michael hits the floor with a crunch as Ratio follows him with his finger, aiming his next projectile for Michael's eye. Aventurine sinks down the wall, laughing hysterically as he waves an arm to cast a Blind Bet so Ratio can teach this misbehaving fool a well-deserved lesson.

"You cannot leave without checking out," Michael insists once more like a stubbornly incorrect student, now nursing a black eye. Ratio ignores him as he locks Michael in the janitor's closet and slides down the bathroom wall next to Aventurine, whose laughter finally dies with a shuddering wheeze. They sit there, quiet and exhausted, as the adrenaline leaves them.

They don’t leave until they hear the tell-tale click-clack of the receptionist’s keyboard.

__________

Aventurine checks them out.

"Good morning," the receptionist warmly greets as she rhythmically types away on her keyboard, the sounds echoing through the empty lobby. Click. Snap. Clack. "Are you ready to check out?"

"Absolutely." Aventurine's face is a smiling mask as Ratio stands stiffly beside him, lips pressed into a thin line. Ratio tunes out the stilted conversation, fixating on the abstract painting behind the receptionist's head. Shining under the overhead lights, it defies the laws of physics as the vibrant rainbow slugs crawl slowly across their canvas wall. The bottom-right signature writhes like a stepped-on earthworm as the colors on the canvas bleed, noticeable even from the other side of the receptionist's desk. Does he even want the receptionist to tell him who made the painting anymore? Unfortunately, in his peripheral, Ratio can see Aventurine give a jerky nod as he tries not to stare at the receptionist's backward fingers. Ratio can hear her metacarpophalangeal joints snapping as the receptionist’s nail plates tap dance on the keys with her palms to the ceiling. Click. Snap. Clack.

"Excellent." The receptionist stops typing, fingers moving with disgusting fluidity as she reaches out, her wrists twisting with a sickly pop as they defy anatomy. It may be better to skip the meeting with Aventurine's superiors today.

"Please give me your room card," the receptionist asks, voice warm as a pot before it boils the crab alive. Aventurine complies mechanically, the room card slipping onto the dorsum of her outstretched hand, blurry in the edge of Ratio’s vision. Ratio stubbornly continues to stare at the moving canvas. The bottom-right signature twitches like it's in its death throes. In the corner of his eye, the receptionist's fingers curl in reverse like tentacles twisting over prey. Ratio desperately reviews the tasks he has to complete after leaving the hotel: getting Aventurine to eat as he hasn't for almost twenty hours, planning lectures for his new students next week, buying new items to replace those that they lost last night, and bathing away the blood and grime. Yes, this morning would be better suited for other tasks than meeting with Aventurine's superiors.

The receptionist goes back to typing on her keyboard, a macabre symphony in the silence. The bottom-right signature is still pathetically twitching as the esurient rainbow consumes it, forever hiding the identity of the artist. Ratio lost interest a long time ago anyway. Click. Snap. Clack. 

"Thank you for choosing the Verdure Residence. Have a pleasant day."

They leave the building on nerveless legs. Hopefully, the costs can be reimbursed by the IPC.

Click. Snap. Clack.

(They were not reimbursed by the IPC.)