Recursion Protocol

Chapter 11: Traces

The Savoy's bar had returned to normal operation, its elegant lighting and polished surfaces gleaming as if the blackout had never happened. Hayes ordered a double whiskey.

"Quite a night," the bartender said, polishing a glass. "Good to have the lights back on."

Hayes drank slowly, his mind focused on what he might find in Room 451. The whiskey helped settle his nerves, though he was careful not to drink too much and cloud his judgment. Around him, other hotel guests had returned to their normal conversations, the earlier tension of the blackout already fading into memory.

After ten minutes, Hayes felt ready. He left a generous tip on the bar and made his way to the lift, the key card from crash site in his pocket.

Room 451 appeared completely empty. Hayes stood in the doorway, key card still in his hand, studying the space. The bed was pristine, corners tucked with hotel precision. No personal belongings on the nightstand, no clothes in the open wardrobe, no signs that anyone had ever occupied this room.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Hayes moved methodically through the space, checking drawers that slid open to reveal nothing, examining surfaces that bore no trace of human presence. The only indication that anyone had been here was the faint impression on one pillow, barely visible in the dim light. Someone had lain down briefly, but left no other trace.

Hayes was about to leave when he noticed the wastebasket beside the desk. Inside was just a torn coffee shop receipt. He smoothed it against the desk surface, squinting to read the faded print in the light.

The receipt was from a place called "Grindhouse Coffee" in Cambridge, dated three days ago. Someone had written on the back in blue ballpoint pen: "Project Mirror"

Hayes stared at the words. The handwriting was neat, precise—the kind of careful script that came from years of taking detailed notes. But the name meant nothing to him. What was the Project Mirror?

The sound of a door handle turning made him freeze.

The bathroom door.

Hayes's pulse jumped. Someone was in there—had been in there the entire time he'd been searching the room. He'd assumed the space was empty, but someone must have been using the bathroom when he'd entered.

The handle turned slowly. Hayes's survival instincts screamed at him to run. He spun toward the main door, his only thought to escape before whoever was in the bathroom emerged.

In his panic, Hayes's shoulder caught the heavy glass vase on the nightstand. It toppled and crashed to the floor, exploding in a shower of glass and water. The sound was tremendous in the confined space—like a gunshot echoing off the walls.

The bathroom door slammed shut.

Hayes didn't wait to see who was inside. He bolted for the main door, fumbling with the handle in his panic.

Behind him, he heard movement from the bathroom—someone calling out, footsteps on tile.

The door finally opened and Hayes ran into the hallway, not looking back. He took the stairs three at a time, his heart hammering as he descended toward the lobby.

By the time he reached the ground floor, Hayes was breathing hard but thinking more clearly. He'd panicked, but he'd also escaped with the only piece of evidence in the room—the torn receipt with its cryptic message.

The Project Mirror. Cambridge. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Hayes walked quickly through the lobby, nodding to the concierge who was back to his normal duties. Outside, London hummed with its usual nighttime energy, streetlights and neon signs bright against the darkness.

He found his motorcycle where he'd left it and started the engine, his hands still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. The crash of the vase had been loud enough to alert hotel security, and he needed to put distance between himself and this place.

As he pulled into traffic, Hayes caught a glimpse of movement in one of the hotel's upper windows. Someone was watching from what looked like the fourth floor, but the distance and poor lighting made it impossible to identify who.

Hayes accelerated, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic. His mind was already working on the next step. Cambridge was less than an hour away by motorcycle, and whatever the Project Mirror was, it seemed to be his only lead.

Hayes thought about the person in the bathroom, about how close he'd come to a confrontation he wasn't prepared for. His instinct to run had been correct, but it left him with questions. Who had been in that room? Were they connected to the man who had tried to kill him? To the people who'd been tracking him?

The motorcycle's headlight cut through the night as Hayes headed northeast toward Cambridge. As he rode through the night, Hayes couldn't shake the feeling that he was being drawn into something much larger than a simple archaeological discovery.