Elaborate gold engravings covered the black door, with silver entwined throughout. It’s a double door, with a tall and wide frame fitting of that for a palace. The handles… well, there aren’t any.

All you can do is walk forward and knock.

The grass crunches under your feet—it feels foreign, as if you’re experiencing it for the first time. The dirt is frosted and dry, and a brittle wind sweeps through the air, but you don’t feel cold. You don’t feel the need to pull your jacket closer around your body, or the need to wear gloves as if in the winter. It’s not uncomfortable, not comfortable, yet something else wildly unexplainable.

Vibrations ring through the door at the slightest touch, and there’s this feeling—this feeling you know somebody is behind the door, waiting, and that they heard you.

In a flash of gold and silver, the doors swing inward. You’re ready to see a palace, hanging crystal chandeliers and winding staircases, fountains in rooms, and master bedrooms galore.

Instead, you’re met with a dingy hotel, like you’d find in the middle of nowhere. Rundown, the color fading, the carpet tattered and that smell of smoke in the air. Familiar, yet something is off.

“Hello!” The cheery voice catches you off guard. “Welcome to your death!”