Panther | Ghost x FemOC

4 ⋮ FNG

7.23.22 - 1143

The hotel room felt like a holding cell disguised as comfort. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige furniture—the place looked like someone had tried to save money by shopping for the most uninspired options available. A faint smell of industrial cleaner and something vaguely floral clung to the air, leaving an antiseptic sharpness in my nose. The bedspread, patterned with muted geometric shapes, screamed early 2000s nostalgia, but not the good kind.

I dropped my duffel on the bed, the springs squeaking in protest, and surveyed my temporary prison. No orders. No updates. Just waiting. My job was often like this—quiet stretches of tedium punctuated by bursts of chaos. But this particular stretch of quiet was gnawing at me. The unknowns about the mission swirled in my head, each unanswered question more frustrating than the last.

"One hell of a start," I muttered, kicking off my boots and tossing them by the door. The thud echoed briefly in the otherwise silent room.

The first thing I did was shower. The bathroom wasn't much better than the room—a cramped space with dingy white tiles and a warped mirror that distorted my reflection at the edges. I turned the shower knob to its hottest setting, waiting for steam to rise, but the water barely made it past lukewarm.

The spray hit my skin in uneven bursts, but I stood under it anyway, letting the tepid water wash away the film of airport sweat and grime. My hair clung to my scalp, plastered down in thick, wet strands, as I worked shampoo into my roots. The simple act of scrubbing felt grounding, almost meditative.

I leaned my forehead against the cool tiles, water streaming down my face as my thoughts spiraled. Who were these people I was about to work with? What kind of mission required this much secrecy? Was I walking into something I wasn't ready for?

The bathroom filled with the faint scent of cheap soap as I rinsed the last of the suds from my hair, the water trickling down the drain with an almost hypnotic rhythm. I can't allow myself to be human in this line of work; I'd be down in the gutter before I could count to three. Doesn't matter, I reminded myself. Stick with it.

After drying off with a towel that was more scratchy than soft, I pulled on an old pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt. The fabric clung uncomfortably to my damp skin as I brushed through my dark hair and stepped back into the main room.

The sun did its best to break through the thick curtains, but to no avail. The space was dim and flipping through the TV channels proved to be as uninspiring as the rest of the room. Home renovation shows featuring overenthusiastic couples arguing about countertops. Reruns of Friends with jokes that hadn't aged well. A game show where contestants embarrassingly misidentified pop hits from the early 2000s.

I settled on the game show, not because it was good, but because it was the least mind-numbing option. The canned laughter eventually fell to static in the background after a few hours or so. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, laid down, and started scrolling.

Stale group chats. Generic memes on Instagram. News articles. Spam emails promising discounts I didn't care about. Nothing to distract me from the oppressive quiet.