The Ichor Hotel stood like a relic from another era, nestled among the modern glass skyscrapers of Fifth Avenue. Its white marble facade gleamed in the golden afternoon light of that Saturday, as if the sun itself had decided to pause over this very building. Tall columns adorned with gold engravings cast long shadows across the sidewalk, and the black iron balconies with hanging fern pots lent the space a distinctly European ambiance. Above the entrance, the metallic letters “ICHOR” sat not with ostentation, but with a stoic dignity above the oak wooden door. If you didn’t know any better, you’d mistake it for just another one of those old luxury hotels where wealthy tourists retreated to experience classic New York. But those who lived in the shadows knew that these marble walls concealed stories no court would ever dare to recount.
Elina parked her car precisely beneath the shade of a large sycamore tree, the engine’s growl fading into silence. For a few moments, she just sat there, gazing at the building. The invitation gleamed on the passenger seat beside her. “We know what you are.” The words still echoed in her mind. She placed her hands on the steering wheel and noticed a faint tremor in her fingers—not from fear, but from excitement and anticipation.
She wrapped the black velvet cloak, which covered half her face, more tightly around herself. The heavy, soft fabric carried a pleasant scent of perfume, as if it had been pulled from an antique chest. When she stepped out of the car, the autumn wind stirred the hem of her black silk dress. Her high heels clicked against the cobblestone pavement: tock, tock, tock—a rhythmic beat, like the pulse of the city itself.
She reached the hotel entrance. The doorman, a tall man in a gray suit with a kindly face, spotted the invitation in Elina’s hand. He promptly removed his peaked cap, offered a polite smile, and said: “Good evening, madam. Welcome to the Ichor Hotel.” Then, in a calm and respectful tone—as if he asked this question of special guests every night—he continued: “Do you have any weapons with you?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Elina replied: “I’ve respected the rules of the invitation. I carry no weapons.”
The doorman nodded and with a sweeping gesture opened the heavy glass doors. They swung open soundlessly, and the warm air inside—scented with leather and wood—rushed out to greet her.