"If someone had to smuggle a Rembrandt out of here, where would he go?" he hummed to himself again and again.
The Grand Titania was too big to be merely a hotel.
Dr. Albert Gunderson had seen cities with less infrastructure, museums with fewer corridors, palaces occupying less space. The megalith offering ‘innocent luxury vacations’ now stood within his grasp, across a junction of four nearly identical marble corridors, each stretching into infinity below.
He tapped the toe of his polished Oxford shoe on the floor. Solid. No flex. Good craftsmanship. Yet something in the way the echo carried through the empty space told him there was a void beneath the corridor.
His pale blue eyes, sharp and alert despite his years, lifted to the ceiling beams. Too decorative. The kind of overcompensation used to disguise a structural inconsistency.
He smiled to himself, still humming. This place has secrets.
With practised ease, he drew a small leather-bound notebook from his inner pocket, uncapped a slim pen, and wrote:
Corridor B-12: Acoustic anomaly. Possible hollow space below. Potential hidden passage? To investigate later.
He slipped the notebook away and murmured, “If someone had to smuggle a Rembrandt out of here, where would they go?”
A voice answered behind him.
“That depends, Professor. Are you the smuggler… or the thief?”
Albert had barely turned when a hand gripped his shoulder. He looked back slowly. The man behind him carried the posture of someone who had never rested: shoulders square, brown slanted eyes expressionless. His suit was immaculate, tailored for movement rather than comfort, unlike the heavy linen of Albert’s.
“Ah,” Albert said mildly. “And you?”
The man ignored the question. He tilted his head, listening.
Albert sighed. “I see. You’re one of those serious types, aren’t you? The kind who don’t introduce themselves until it’s dramatically convenient?”
Still nothing, only a firmer grip on his shoulder.
“Tell me,” Albert went on, “is this the part where you falsely accuse me of something? Because if so, I should warn you I’m entirely unfit for crime. I’ve been trying to cheat on taxes for years, but the government keeps sending the forms back with corrections.”
A twitch of the man’s jaw, almost a reaction, but not quite.
The triangular face, the narrow nose, the slant of the eyes, Albert guessed he was Korean. Not a hotel guard. Something else. Too professional. Too composed. And his eyes weren’t on Albert; they were sweeping the endless corridors, searching for witnesses.
“Professor Albert Gunderson,” the man finally said. It wasn’t a question. “At least, that’s how you registered for this hotel.”
“Oh good!” Albert said. “You know who I am. That means I’m not hallucinating.” He patted his pocket. “Want to see some ID? I keep it with my mints.”
The man still hadn’t released his grip.
Albert sighed. “I’m afraid I got a little lost. I was looking for the library.”
“There’s no library.”
Albert’s brow furrowed. “That’s suspicious. Don’t you think? Any place this size without a library is bound to be hiding something.”
The man’s grip tightened.
“Professor,” he said in a low voice, “I’ve been following you for the past two days.” He leaned close, his breath brushing Albert’s ear. “Why are you exploring these corridors?”
Albert blinked. “Researcher? My dear boy, I’m not just a researcher, I’m an admirer.”
Silence.
Then, very slowly, Albert pointed to the chandelier above them. “See those beams?” he said lightly. “Fake. Hollow. Decorative extensions to disguise structural inconsistencies. And the flooring? It rises slightly above the level below, which means…”
He tapped his foot, producing a faint, hollow thud. “There’s an empty space beneath us. The whole corridor sits on something, a storeroom, a hidden passage, an escape tunnel, perhaps.” He shrugged. “Hence the Rembrandt question.”
“Enough nonsense. Come with me, please.” The Korean tightened his grip on Albert’s shoulder, an unspoken command.
“Who are you, and why should I accompany you? Unless you’ve got Rummikub in your room?” Albert chuckled, winking.
He studied the man: sharply pressed suit, sharper cheekbones. Not a hotel employee. No name tag, no nervous apology about ‘hotel policy’, just the cool precision of someone who looked as though he could break twelve bones with a dessert spoon.
Albert didn’t flinch, though his shoulder clicked in protest. His body was eighty-five, but his pride still lived somewhere in his forties, and surrender was not yet on the agenda.
“Young man,” he said calmly, “I’ve listened politely, and I’ll keep doing so. But you are now infringing on an elderly gentleman’s constitutional right to wander at his leisure.”
The Korean leaned closer, voice like gravel. “You’ll wander straight into your grave if you keep asking the wrong questions.”
Albert smiled patiently. “And that, my friend, is the most melodramatic thing anyone has said to me all week. And I once taught at a university where the drama department rehearsed swordfights outside my office.”
The Korean’s expression didn’t shift. Clearly, he was not a man for anecdotes about overzealous drama students.
Albert, still the picture of composure, gently patted the hand gripping his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re doing your best to scare me, but at my age, I’m far more frightened of changing my glasses.”
That might have been the last straw.
The Korean’s free hand darted into his blazer and came out with a compact pistol — sleek, matte black, efficient, and utterly out of place against the hotel’s gold-trimmed wallpaper.
Albert froze for a beat, then sighed. “Oh, and now you’ve upgraded to accessories.”
The gun pressed lightly into his ribs, not enough to make a scene, just enough to prove that chandeliers and girders were no longer the topic.
“You’re coming with me,” the Korean said quietly. “Now.”
Albert’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “And if I refuse? Politely, of course.”
A twitch of the eyebrow , the faintest ghost of expression, as though the muscles hadn’t been used in years. “Then I stop being polite.”
Albert considered. He could comply, be a good hostage, endure a dimly lit interrogation scented with mould and bad coffee, and then be released.
Or…
“I suppose,” Albert said lightly, “you’ve never played catch me if you can, have you?”
Before the Korean could answer, Albert’s free hand shot up, knocking the pistol just wide enough to slip under his arm. In a single, uncharacteristically nimble motion, he ducked low, sidestepped toward the wall, and vanished into the intersecting corridor to the left.
For a man who complained about his knees every morning, Albert moved with the unlikely grace of someone who had spent a lifetime prowling through monasteries, tunnels, and catacombs.
The Korean hid the gun and cursed under his breath, breaking into a sprint.
CCTV cameras jutted from the ceiling here, their red lights blinking like watchful eyes.
“You’ll have to catch up, my dear boy!” Albert called over his shoulder, maintaining the proud gait of a man pretending he wasn’t out of breath.
The Korean kept his distance, wary of the cameras.
Albert’s heart pounded. This wasn’t ideal, admittedly, but it did have one advantage, something the Korean clearly didn’t know. A gilded side door a few metres ahead led into a service corridor, which in turn connected to a hidden maintenance shaft. And maintenance shafts, as everyone sensible knew, were always near… escape routes.
Or, at worst, a well-hidden utility closet.
