Anya's eyes strained to pierce the thickening darkness. The road stretched endlessly, a ribbon of cracked asphalt winding through an abyss of shadow. The rain began softly at first, misting her windshield, but within minutes, it was pouring in sheets, the wipers barely keeping pace. Her headlights cut through the storm, creating an eerie glow that illuminated nothing but the slick surface of the road and the dense, shifting curtain of rain. She pulled over to the side of the road, stepped out into the rain and let it wash Mark’s dried blood from her face. She used his sweatshirt and the rain to scrub at the driver’s side window, which necessarily led to the worn fabric of the driver’s seat soaking through. She did not think of Mark’s body, this same rain turning the dirt under him into mud. When she did think of it, it was only to hope that the weather might conceal any trace of her left behind. She got back behind the wheel, dripping wet, shivering with cold and repulsed by the soft squelching of the seat beneath her. She turned the heat on high and got back on the road. Occasionally, a car would appear, its headlights blinding her for a split second before rushing past with a roar of displaced water. Each time, her heart jumped, her grip on the wheel tightening. She didn’t see the truck until it was almost too late—a hulking mass of metal barreling toward her, its blaring horn adding to the cacophony of rain and thunder. The glare of its headlights blinded her, and her hands instinctively jerked the wheel. The truck screamed past, the sheer force of its proximity rocking her car. Anya gasped, her chest constricting as her tires skidded briefly on the wet road. For a long moment, she sat there, her car idling in the middle of the road, the rain pounding against the roof like the beating of a drum. Her hands trembled on the wheel until she pulled them away to crack her knuckles, the only way to still them. The truck’s red taillights vanished into the storm, leaving her alone in the suffocating darkness. She exhaled shakily, forcing herself to keep moving. This time, she drove slower, each turn of the wheel deliberate and cautious. Her chest ached, and her throat felt tight, but she pressed on. Her body itched under her wet clothes. After what felt like hours, a red neon vacancy sign appeared through the rain, an arrow beckoning down a side road—faint at first but growing brighter with every mile. When she got close enough, she saw the hotel’s name, its letters lit from below: Getaway Lodge. Following the sign's directions, she navigated a winding, shadowy road until she arrived at a dimly lit building. Stepping out of the car, she paused, staring in confusion. Before her stood a towering fifteen-story building. It was far too large, entirely out of place in such a remote, desolate area. Even three-story buildings were rare out here, let alone one of this size. Anya studied the facade for a long time, trying to discern the building’s age or origin, but its appearance was inscrutable, a relic of some forgotten time. At one glance, it appeared to be brutalist in design, all bureaucratic angles and gray concrete. Then, blinking, it appeared suddenly Victorian, a gothic mansion. But, no, it was more mid-century, red brick and utilitarian. Anya wondered if she might be getting a migraine. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. Whatever the mystery of the building, she needed rest. She approached the massive wooden doors–no, the doors were glass, sliding open automatically, then wheezing shut behind her. Inside, a dim light from a colossal chandelier illuminated the decaying interior. The lobby was dominated by a monolithic reception desk that seemed carved from marble. There was no one behind it. There was no one anywhere. The room smelled like the weeping roses patterning the rotting carpet, spoiled perfume that clung to the velvet curtains sagging from their rods. Anya took a step towards the reception desk, only to realize that her first impression of the room was wrong. The desk wasn’t marble; it was splintered, pale wood and a cracked, stained Plexiglass shield. It was not a chandelier lighting the room, but a bare bulb flickering as it hung from a frayed wire, casting sickening shadows across the brick walls. Metal beams interrupted the ceiling like exposed ribs. The air smelled scorched, electric. Behind the desk, an old CRT monitor only showed static...