Doors: Hotel Hell

Chapter 5: Silver Lining

The group lingered in the hallway of Door Fifty-One, the oppressive weight of their losses hanging over them. Five were dead now: David, Tristan, Ava, Brendan, and Desmond. Their numbers had dwindled faster than they could've ever imagined, and the weight of it pressed down on them like a vice. Vince could feel the heaviness of the book of names in his hand as if it were pulling him down, reminding him of the friends they'd lost. They were barely halfway to Door One Hundred, and already they were bleeding, limping, and broken. Desmond's sacrifice haunted him-how quickly it had happened, how final it had felt. Vince swallowed hard, looking over at the others. None of them would be the same after this.

Ryan was sitting against the wall, groaning with every slight movement. His right arm hung limply by his side, broken in the chaos with the Figure. His face was slick with sweat as he tried to hide his pain. Norman, despite the pain of his own shoulder wound, knelt beside Ryan, working methodically to fashion a sling. He ripped a tablecloth from a nearby side table and tore part of a curtain to add support, wrapping it around Ryan's chest and arm to keep it immobile.

"Hold still."

Norman muttered. His left shoulder was still bleeding. He could feel the warm trickle of blood against his skin but didn't complain. Ryan grimaced as Norman tightened the sling, the pain sharp and throbbing.

"Feels like... Hell, dude."

"Better than nothing."

Norman replied, tying a final knot with shaking fingers. Norman spoke again.

"You're lucky it's just the arm. If it had been your leg..."

Ryan nodded weakly; his jaw clenched.

"Man... I ain't lucky."

Lando, standing off to the side, found a small first-aid box tucked away under a nearby desk. Inside was almost nothing useful, except for a single band-aid. He pulled it out and, with a half-hearted smirk, slapped it under his right eye where the Figure's claw had cut his cheek. Peter stood further back; his eyes distant.

"Five. Five of us are gone. And we're not even halfway."

Vince turned to him.

"We'll make it, y'all. For 'em."

To the left of the hall, Butch leaned against the far wall, silent and seething. His clothes were torn, deep gashes running along his arms and sides where the Figure had torn into him during the group's book hunt. His face was pale, drawn tight with pain, but he refused to show any sign of weakness. His eyes were darker now, filled with something far more dangerous than fear-anger, hatred, and something broken. Butch had barely escaped the Figure, and he bore the scars of the encounter. Blood caked his skin, and his breathing was shallow, labored. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body, but he said nothing. The others hadn't seen the worst of what he'd endured, and he wasn't about to tell them. Let them think he was still invincible... Let them think whatever they wanted... He stood apart from the group, his face contorted into a bitter scowl. Butch didn't care about their sadness or their losses. He didn't care about Desmond or any of the others. Desmond had been weak, and in Butch's mind, weak people didn't survive in a place like this. Desmond's death was just one more loss in a long line of failures. And now, Butch was more determined than ever to look out for himself. The group hadn't noticed how much of a toll the encounter had taken on him. His limbs were heavy, his head pounded, and every step felt like it could be his last, but Butch kept his distance, refusing help. His mind was in a darker place now, consumed by the violence and the injuries, his trust in the others completely shattered. He had survived on his own before, and he'd do it again. He didn't need them. Not now. Not ever.