The "Infirmary of the Living" was a room rarely used, tucked away in a corner of the hotel where the air felt less like a tomb and more like a library. It smelled of dried chamomile and old parchment. Min-ah sat on the edge of a velvet chaise lounge, still clutching the silver compass, while the Proprietor stood by the window, his back to her.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice reflecting in the glass. "The living who wander into this hotel usually leave their sanity behind. Why are you different?"
"I don't know," Min-ah admitted, looking around at the shadows that seemed to dance on their own. "But the compass stopped spinning the moment I saw you. It felt... like a magnet finally finding home."
The Proprietor turned around, his eyes narrowing. "Your grandmother, Seol-hwa. I remember her. It was 1945. The city was in chaos. She was a soul who refused to cross the bridge because she was looking for a child she had lost in the crowd."
Min-ah's breath hitched. "The child... that was my father. He survived because of a 'stranger in a blue suit' who found him and brought him to a shelter."
The Proprietor looked away. "I didn't do it out of kindness. It was a trade. She promised that if I saved the child, her bloodline would serve the Moon when the time came. I thought it was a symbolic gesture—a desperate mother's vow. I didn't realize she had the power to bind her descendants to a curse."
He walked toward her, the silver cane tapping softly. He reached out his gloved hand and touched the compass. The moment he did, a projection of light burst from the device, swirling around the room like a miniature galaxy. In the center of the light, images of the past flickered: a younger version of the Proprietor, a burning village, and a woman holding a baby.
"The debt isn't just a thank you, Min-ah," the Proprietor said, his voice turning grim. "The compass is a locator for the pieces of my soul that were scattered when the original Hotel Del Luna was born. Your grandmother didn't just give you a family heirloom; she gave you the burden of being my 'Key-Bearer'."
Manager Choi entered the room, looking distressed. "Master, the guest in Room 404... the CEO... he's vanished. But he didn't cross the bridge. Something from the Void Chamber dragged him in."
The Proprietor's face went pale. He looked at the iron key he had just retrieved from the vengeful spirit and then at Min-ah.
"The Void is hungry," the Proprietor whispered. "And now that a living soul has entered the hotel, the balance has shifted. The room I couldn't open is opening itself."
Suddenly, the floor beneath them groaned. The walls of the infirmary began to bleed shadows, and the temperature dropped until their breath came out in white puffs. A low, rhythmic thumping started behind the walls—like a giant heart beginning to beat after a thousand years of silence.
Min-ah stood up, her face pale but determined. "If I'm the Key-Bearer, then I can help you, right? I saw it in the dream. You can't enter that room alone."
The Proprietor looked at her—a mortal girl in a yellow raincoat, standing at the edge of an abyss she didn't understand. He felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in centuries: fear. Not for himself, but for her.
"If you follow me past that door," he warned, "you might never see the sun again. Is your grandmother's debt worth your life?"
Min-ah looked at the compass, which was now glowing a steady, brilliant blue. "It's not about the debt anymore. I want to know why you're so sad."
The Proprietor froze. No one had dared to comment on his emotions for ages. He tightened his grip on his cane and gestured toward the door.
"Then come, Key-Bearer. Let's see what ghosts we've been keeping under lock and key."