Hell's Exit

Static Between The Channels

Nobody seems to sleep here.

I didn't see anyone yawning. Nobody was rubbing their eyes. No mentions of long nights, or early mornings, or catching a nap. No bedsheets out of place. No lights were turned off.

And me?

I didn't feel tired. At all.

My body felt steady. My head was clear enough, considering the circumstances. But I hadn't slept. I couldn't remember if I had ever had one since waking up on the plane.

The fog outside stayed the same. Always the same. Gray. Motionless. Like a background drawn by hand.

I walked back through the lobby.

Same stiff carpet. Same weirdly polished surfaces. Same emptiness behind the front desk.

Something clicked in my brain then.

There were no clocks.

I hadn't seen a single one since arriving. Not in the room. Not in the lobby. Not in the halls. No ticking on walls, no bedside digits, no reception counter clock to remind the night staff how long they had left.

And watches—none of the staff wore one. Not the woman at check-in. Not the room service girl. Not the guy in the tan blazer.

Even my phone...

I pulled it out again.

The screen glowed blank white.

Then a word appeared:

STILL.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket.

Still.

Right. Everything here was still.

No clocks. No time. No sleep. Just static air and a fog that never moved.

I was halfway across the lobby when I heard it.

A scream.

Male. Raw. Desperate.

Then running footsteps—fast, erratic.

I turned just as a man sprinted out of one of the side corridors. Mid-fifties, grey hair wild, shirt untucked, one shoe missing. He was gasping like he'd been running for miles. Eyes wide. Terrified.

"Not again!" he shouted. "No, no, not again—"

He shoved past me without even looking and sprinted across the lobby.

I ran after him.

He reached the far wall—one I hadn't paid attention to before—and slapped his hand against what looked like smooth marble.

A door opened.

No sound. With just a smooth click, a seam appeared in the wall, as if it had been waiting for the right touch.

Behind it: an elevator.

I stopped short.

I had never seen an elevator here. No signs. No call button. No up or down arrow. Just a brushed steel door and a digital display above it.

The man darted inside.

I reached the doors just as they closed.

Inside, he didn't press any buttons. There were none to press.

He looked up, stared straight at the camera in the corner, and whispered something.

Then the display lit up.