The sun filtered through a narrow gap in the thick, heavily embroidered curtains of Room 18C, one of the less-than-luxurious chambers in the ironically named Grand Hotel, located in the heart of Hartlepool. A small shipping town in the north-east of England, Hartlepool was now more bust than bustling, its days of industry long past. Once a vibrant hub of shipbuilding and trade, the town had decayed into a hollow shell of itself.

Through the dusty air, a shaft of light illuminated a faded pillow, forming a narrow triangle of brightness across the fabric, inching slowly toward the face of the bed's only occupant, Colin Ditchburn.

The sharp intrusion of light finally reached his eyes, rousing Col from a deep, restless sleep. His mind floated in that brief moment between confusion and euphoria, where dreams still linger, and reality feels distant. Colors flickered before his vision as the sunlight teased his eyelids. Groaning, Col arched his head out of the sun’s glare, rubbing his temples. Blinking away the grogginess, his gaze settled on the small digital clock perched on the nightstand beside the bed.

9:30 AM.

Col shot upright in bed, a knot forming in his chest as the realization hit him. "Shit... Damn it! Fuck!" he cursed under his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He was supposed to have been up hours ago. His meeting with Leonard Potter had been scheduled for 9:00 sharp. This wasn’t just another business meeting—it was the meeting. The one that would either save or sink his company. He’d flown halfway around the world to this crumbling town for a shot at securing a contract for offshore oil rig production, a deal worth millions. A deal that had to go through.

Col's company, once a promising up-and-comer in the industrial engineering sector, was now hanging by a thread. He’d overextended on every line of credit, maxed out his personal savings, and taken on risky loans to keep the business afloat. If this contract fell through, it wouldn’t just mean losing the company—it would mean bankruptcy. Worse, it would be the end of everything he had built over the years. He had poured his life into the firm, and now, with mounting debt and unpaid suppliers knocking at the door, the future looked grim.

"Half-seven," he muttered, climbing out of bed, his words laced with frustration. "I told them, half-seven for the wake-up call! How hard is that to remember?"

The tension gnawed at him as he frantically dressed. He could feel the weight of the entire company pressing down on his shoulders. Why Hartlepool? He had asked himself that a dozen times. It was a dead-end town, a place barely hanging on by its fingernails. But it wasn’t like he had much of a choice—Lenard Potter had insisted on meeting here, and Potter was his only way in for this contract. Lenard had the kind of connections that could open doors with a phone call. Doors that could lead to government-backed contracts, the kind of work that would put Col's company back in the black and allow him to pay off the creditors breathing down his neck. But now, with every minute that ticked by, Col knew he was late for the most important meeting of his career.

He cast a scornful glance at the old-fashioned phone by the bedside table, as if it were somehow responsible for the failure. The hotel, like the town, was worn down and past its prime—a relic of a time when Hartlepool had been a bustling maritime hub. Now, it was a ghost town in the making. Entire blocks were deserted, their windows smashed, and businesses closed for good. Some locals talked of mysterious disappearances, people vanishing in the night—no goodbyes, no signs of struggle, just gone. Col hadn’t paid much attention to the rumors, but standing in a place like this, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that the town itself was slowly being erased from existence.

His clothes, haphazardly thrown over a nearby chair the night before, were hastily donned. Col had never been one to care much about appearances, so long as he looked passably presentable. Jeans, a slightly wrinkled t-shirt, and his trusty all-terrain walking boots—cleaned meticulously the night before—made up his outfit for the day. He ran a hand through his receding ginger hair, slicking it back more out of habit than vanity. His boots, polished and spotless, were the one item of clothing he always kept in perfect condition. "You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes," his grandfather had always told him. The rest of his appearance, however, betrayed his careless, unkempt approach to life.

Within five minutes, Col was ready, barreling out the door of his room and heading for the elevator. As the doors slid shut behind him, sealing him in the metal box, Col drummed his fingers impatiently on the brass handrail, his foot tapping in sync. He hated elevators. The slow, melodic muzak oozing from the speakers overhead only aggravated his nerves further, dragging time out with its bland, soporific rhythm. It was as if the universe conspired to slow him down just when he needed to move faster than ever.

The drumming of his fingers increased in pace, matching the rhythm of his thoughts. He didn’t have time for delays. If he didn’t get to that meeting soon, Potter would walk away, and with him would go any hope of saving his business. The thought of going bankrupt sent a surge of adrenaline through him. He couldn’t fail, not now, not when everything was on the line. But as the seconds dragged on in the elevator, it felt as though failure was creeping closer by the minute.

“God, I hate this place,” Col muttered, pacing in the cramped elevator as it trundled down. The stale, metallic air made his skin itch. "Who in their right mind still plays elevator music?" The nauseatingly slow, syrupy melody felt like it was mocking him, dragging each second out with agonizing indifference. His eyes remained glued to the floor display above the doors, watching the numbers tick down at a pace that defied physics. His foot tapped faster and faster, the rapid motion betraying his barely contained frustration.

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Every delay only made his heart pound harder in his chest. I can’t be late, he thought, his mind racing. Not for this meeting. His company’s survival depended on it. He’d begged and borrowed just to get this far—every line of credit stretched to breaking point. If he blew this deal, it would mean the end, not just for the company, but for him. No contract, no company. No company, no home, no life. It was a grim thought that had gnawed at him for weeks. And now, this nightmare hotel was pushing him closer to the edge with every second.

When the elevator finally chimed, Col burst out like a spring-loaded trap, charging straight for the reception desk. His eyes darted to the counter. Empty.

"I don’t fucking believe it," he hissed, slamming his hand onto the small brass bell. The sharp, metallic ring echoed through the deserted lobby. He hammered the bell again, frustration gnawing at his patience, but still—nothing. No receptionist, no sign of life.

"Hello?" Col called out, craning his neck, scanning the lobby. It was still early, but the sheer emptiness of the place unsettled him. A cold knot tightened in his chest. Where the hell is everyone?

His jaw tightened as he grit his teeth. "What sort of hotel is this?" he spat, stalking toward the café in search of staff. It was still closed—dark and padlocked, with a rusted chain draped across the handles like a relic of a forgotten time. The faint smell of stale coffee hung in the air from the previous day, and the silence gnawed at him.

“That’s it,” he roared, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Fuck this stupid fucking hotel!” He stormed back toward the reception desk, his fists clenching at his sides, the pressure inside him building to a boiling point. All I need is a taxi. Just a damn taxi. He shoved his way behind the desk and grabbed the phone, dialing the one cab company he knew in this backwater town. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

"No, no, no!" Col growled, gripping the receiver tighter. It rang endlessly, mocking him with its tone. Finally, it clicked—followed by silence. He slammed the receiver down so hard it cracked, but his anger had taken on a life of its own. The fury surged. In a fit of uncontrollable rage, Col ripped the phone off the wall, hurling it across the lobby. It skidded along the floor, coming to a stop near the far wall. Infuriatingly, it didn’t even break.

“Fucking… thing!” he screamed, swiping his arm across the counter and sending papers and pens flying, scattering them across the floor like shrapnel. His breath came in heavy, ragged bursts, and the pulse in his temples throbbed with raw fury. I need to get out of here. This place was driving him mad.

Col marched toward the exit, his movements erratic and violent. Along the way, he kicked over a waste bin, sending its contents skidding across the polished marble floor, then smashed his hand against a nearby light fixture, sending shards of glass clattering down. None of it helped. His frustration, his desperation, had reached a breaking point. The need to do something consumed him, yet nothing soothed the boiling rage in his chest.

But when he pushed through the front doors and into the open air, all thoughts of his anger vanished, sucked into the void like smoke in a gust of wind.

Col came to a dead stop, his body locking up as if his limbs had suddenly turned to stone. The street—Hartlepool’s dreary, run-down streets—were gone. The town itself was gone.

His eyes darted around in disbelief. The familiar view of gray stone buildings and abandoned shops, of boarded-up terraces and rusting street lamps—all of it had vanished. In its place was something... wrong.

Towering before him, cutting through what should have been the town center, was an immense, white wall. No, it wasn’t just a wall—it was a monolith. Smooth, featureless, and impossibly high, stretching toward the sky until it disappeared into the haze above. Col blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but his brain felt sluggish, refusing to comprehend the sheer scale of the structure. The wall stretched endlessly in both directions, a seamless, unbroken barrier that seemed to curve, suggesting it enclosed an unfathomably large space.

“What... the hell...?”

Col’s mouth hung open, his hands limp by his sides. There was no street, no buildings—nothing but this alien, towering wall. The ground beneath him wasn’t the familiar cracked pavement of Hartlepool either. It was smooth, too smooth, like polished stone, yet it had a sterile, almost clinical quality to it. The air felt different, too. Col’s skin prickled with an eerie sensation, as though he was being watched, but there were no eyes. No people. Nothing.

He stumbled forward, his legs shaky, struggling to hold him up. His heart pounded in his chest, but he barely noticed. He moved slowly, as if in a trance, his eyes fixed on the white wall as his mind spiraled into a chasm of confusion. What is this place? Where am I?

The street, the town—Hartlepool—hadn’t just disappeared. It had been replaced. Teleported, perhaps? It was absurd, but what other explanation was there? He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something had moved him, or maybe the entire hotel, to this strange new reality. Where was he now?

The wall—no, the barrier—that loomed in front of him wasn’t a part of Hartlepool. It was part of something much larger, something alien. He could feel the vast emptiness around him, as though he was standing at the edge of a massive chamber, its true scale hidden from him by the sheer size of the walls. The silence was overwhelming, pressing down on him like a physical weight. No hum of traffic, no voices, no machines—nothing but his own ragged breathing.

Col’s legs finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the smooth floor, the impact jarring him back to reality. He winced in pain, but even that was distant, a mere echo of what he should have felt. His eyes remained fixed on the wall, his mind grappling with the sheer absurdity of what was happening. His anger had evaporated, replaced by something far worse—a cold, creeping dread that slithered into his chest, squeezing his lungs tight.

The world he knew had disappeared. Everything familiar had been stripped away. He was no longer in Hartlepool.

He wasn’t sure where the hell he was.