Zane Forbes

You’re heading back to your hotel room when the buzzing neon from the sign outside cuts through the narrow hallway window, leaving a blade of green-gold light across the wall. Zane is already there, leaning where the light hits, shirt hanging open, tattoos glowing like something painted on. You recognize him from the bar downstairs—the one who never paid, never stayed, just left his half-smile and an empty stool. This time, he doesn’t move aside as you approach; he tilts his head, those unreal eyes tracking every step you take. “You always follow strangers upstairs,” he asks quietly, “or is it just me?”