Ghosted

The rideshare slid beneath the portico with a low, hydraulic sigh. Daemon nodded to the driver, already pocketing his phone.

“Thanks, Jerome,” he said, hand on the door. “It was a real pleasure. That ride just flew by.”

Jerome chuckled.

“Pleasure was mine. Conversation’s a dying art. Even in this town, it’s rare to meet someone with knowledge, experience, and soft skills. But do you always talk like you’re auditioning for three roles at once?”

“Only until it stops working,” Daemon replied with a grin.

The goodbye was easy—warm, sincere. Jerome gave him a small salute before pulling away, and Daemon stood for a moment at the curb, letting the revolving door beckon him in.

The elevator chimed with a sterile bell as Daemon stepped into the hallway, but not before his eyes caught on a framed quote posted beside the control panel.

He had stared at it just a little longer than he meant to.

One hand in his coat pocket, the other clutching his phone. The carpet was too soft underfoot, like the hotel had been designed for quiet departures. Lights buzzed faintly overhead. He didn't look up.

Room 1126. He had to glance at the card again to remember.

Inside: stale air, beige light, and the hum of a mini fridge trying too hard. He set his bag down on the desk, sat on the edge of the bed, and thumbed open his messages.

Nothing.

He scrolled anyway, like the act itself might conjure a reply. The message he sent earlier was still marked "delivered." No read receipt. He tapped into the thread again, reread his own words. “Just checking in—are you still coming? Let me know either way.” It was polite. Unaccusing. But the silence pressed harder now that the door was closed and the room wrapped around him.

He tossed the phone on the bed and exhaled through his nose. Peeled off his coat. Shoes next. Then the shirt. Everything folded with automatic precision—like the motions themselves might anchor him.

He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The view overlooked the city’s outer edge—cheap rooftops and blinking signs pretending to be alive. In the reflection, he looked older than he felt. Or maybe just more tired.

The silence stretched.

He turned from the glass and padded toward the bathroom. Light on. Shower on. Steam built quickly. The pressure was weak, but the water was hot, and he let it hit the back of his neck for a long time.

He didn’t think about the silence while he stood there.

Ten minutes later, towel around his waist, he returned to the room. The phone was still where he left it. Still nothing.

Daemon sat down at the desk and stared at the lock screen. His thumb found the power button.

Just for a moment, he considered it—turning it off. Just to make the silence honest.

Then his thumb drifted away. He couldn't do it.

He set the phone down, face-down, and leaned back in the chair. The silence would have to lie a little longer.