Chapter 2
"Get out of my lobby!" Arthur's voice rasped out, dry as old parchment, though the words were meant for the man holding his jacket rather than the hotel itself. Davis ignored the command, his knuckles whitening as he bunched the green canvas tighter, lifting Arthur an inch off the cold floor. The manager's breath smelled faintly of expensive mints and black coffee, a bitter contrast to the cheap rye Arthur had tasted hours ago behind the bus station. Eleanor's hand flew to her pearls, her fingers tightening around the smooth beads until her knuckles turned pale. She had walked into this hotel expecting a routine corporate review, a quiet weekend discussing quarterly hospitality benchmarks with her husband's regional staff, not a confrontation on the ground floor with a ghost from a forgotten war. Davis gave Arthur's collar another brutal shake, his voice dropping into a harsh, controlled hiss meant only for the veteran's ears. "I just need a moment," Davis lied smoothly, though his eyes darted toward the front desk where two bellhops were watching with nervous curiosity. Arthur let out a low, rattling sigh that sounded like air escaping a punctured tire. He didn't fight back. Years ago, in the damp heat of a green hell halfway across the world, he had learned the value of conserving energy when surrounded by enemies who held all the cards. Instead of swinging his fists, Arthur slowly uncurled his stiff fingers, exposing the crumpled, fire-damaged photograph to the open air between them. The edges of the glossy paper were blistered black, curling inward like dry autumn leaves, but the central image remained stubbornly visible—a squad of exhausted young men posing in front of a thatched hut, their eyes hollow and young. Eleanor gasped softly, her gaze dropping to the charred edges of the paper as recognition flickered across her face. Davis stiffened, finally releasing Arthur's jacket and staggering back half a step as if the paper were burning his own fingers.
