Swiping, tapping, scrolling.

The sun had already been out for hours, hanging in the middle of the afternoon sky. Penetrating the veiled windows, it served as dim illumination for the gloomy room, revealing its state of disarray. A crude reminder that Dean Prosper was wasting away the day.

Checking the time, he grumbled before rolling out of bed. The vaporous fog of sleep still present, though he had long-since woken up, he stumbled towards the bathroom.

Grasping halfheartedly in his half-wakeful state, he clutched the faucet, and stood idly until the mirror began to fog up.

Letting the warm water wash over him, his dim eyes traced the uneven lines of tile.

Lingering for as long as he was able, he exited the shower, with his body still aching as if he hadn't slept the day away, a profound exhaustion that penetrated to the marrow.

Slowly and hatefully, he wore his black slacks, pulled on his white button-up, and slipped into his velvet vest.

Shuffling toward the station, his mind still clouded with the remnants of sleep, Dean barely noticed the cold air biting at his skin.

He gripped his phone tightly while meandering down the street - his focus entirely absorbed on the happenings there-in. He swiped through the posts of old acquaintances, aimlessly scrolled through short-form content, and opened and closed apps without thought.

The human mind was quite powerful. Despite not dedicating an iota of attention to his surroundings, he was able to navigate the street easily and without issue.

Stepping off the curb, he climbed the steps to enter the well-lit station, awash with the hum of daily commuters. These fellows, though they traveled the same path every morning and returned at the same time every night, were strangers. A general apathy was ever-present among the populace. One couldn't be bothered to reach out and speak to their fellow man.

Dean made his way to the platform. The train's piercing arrival interrupted his intent focus, and he boarded the train without hesitation - movements entirely rote. Pushing ahead of the crowd,, he took an empty seat near the middle of the train and began scrolling through his phone aimlessly. This was to him, quite routine. He did the same thing every day without fail, and likely would continue to do so.

It was little fascinations that awoke us from the mundanities of our existence, and likewise Dean, despite his attachment from worldly affairs, still looked forward to certain things.

Like the woman across from him.

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In her early twenties, her stunning visage sat with perfect posture in a neat black blazer and pencil skirt. She held her chin up lackadaisically as she gazed out through the train's window - painting a dreamlike visage that drew in the hapless passerby.

Such was the allure of women.

Dean found himself stealing glances at her, curiosity rising in his chest. And then, the fire of desire raged in his heart.

He'd seen her before, of course. She was a regular commuter, always boarding the train at the same time. And in the manner typical of the disconnected, those who lived their lives inside their own heads, over time he built up her image to titanic proportions.

His mind played games in her absence, that magnified her all the more in her presence. He'd observe the smaller aspects, secret signifiers - the keys to her inner sanctum. Her whimsical earring choice, for example, that denoted her playful side. Or the cut of her clothing that informed of her fashionable sensibilities.

She was one of those people, he thought.

One of those people who found things effortless.

He'd never spoken to her.

But for some reason, today felt different.

Her presence was more palpable, more visceral.

He could feel the warmth of her personal space, separated by a thin aisle of empty seats.

He shifted staring down at his phone, scrolling without really looking.

He was distracting himself, attempting to absorb himself in the screen - he couldn't focus. He felt mounting pressure, a desire to deviate from the course of things. He felt the pressure to talk, to speak, to tell her - something, anything.

Lowering his phone, he made to open his mouth when….

The train jerked to a stop.

Gathering her things, the woman stood up, giving him a last glance before she moved towards the exit.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

It was nothing more than a passing recognition. Nothing to remember.

He stepped off the train and walked through the station, leaving his resolve in the terminal. As he exited the station and headed toward his workplace, the towering façade of the Hotel Vienna loomed before him.

Grandeur, opulence, luxury - the Hotel Vienna.

A 5-star hotel, or to those in the know, the 5-star hotel, nestled in the heart of Imen city, where wealth and power mingled in extravagant luxury.

Marble floors and grand chandeliers with pillars that stretched to redundancy. Ceilings high enough to house actual giants, frequented by the much less impressive human variety. Celebrities, socialites, politicians- the world of the well-to-do. Behind Hotel Vienna's gilded walls, they danced the night away, engaged in ceaseless debauchery, and lived lives of glittering excess.

Sometimes, Dean felt like it wasn't just a hotel. It felt like the concentration of an ideal - the towering, austere glow of perfection that came from the screen. It was larger than life - pulsing. And it was just out of reach. Always, always, it was just outside of reach.

To the public, the hotel was an oasis—a shimmering haven from the rigors of everyday life. It was the kind of place people looked at with envy, the kind of place that existed in magazines, in movies, where everyone always looked perfect and everything always felt just right. And maybe for them, it really was.

But there were always the haves, and the have-nots. Every ideal needed maintenance. Behind the curtains and beyond the polished counters there were the ones working to make this world material - the tread upon, the foundation, the miserable. The ones who ensured that everything remained pristine. The bellhops, the cleaners, the chefs, the waitstaff. The valet. Who poured their dreams, their blood, their sweat into someone else's ideal.

People like Dean.