I have developed a habit of writing while standing.
It began as a necessity—there is rarely a convenient desk when encountering the impossible—but today it felt more like survival. Writing meant thinking. Thinking meant control. And control was the only defense against whatever this place was.
I stood at the reception desk, journal open, pen racing across the page.
Interior space does not match exterior volume.Air composition stable. Temperature controlled. No detectable power source.Host entity appears instantly upon bell activation.
I paused only long enough to glance up at him.
The figure stood patiently behind the desk, hands folded, posture immaculate, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, given the circumstances, was a terrifying possibility.
"Where exactly is this structure located?" I asked.
The answer came calmly.
"Outside the Omniverse."
I wrote faster.
The word Omniverse went onto the page in firm, dark strokes, circled three times. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I flipped the journal slightly and wrote the same sentence again in invisible ink, pressing harder than necessary.
Certain discoveries demanded redundancy.
I moved to the lobby window next.
If one could call it a window.
Color stretched beyond it—impossible gradients folding into each other, clusters of light drifting like constellations that refused to obey astronomy. Depth without distance. Motion without trajectory.
I stopped writing for several seconds.
Then resumed writing furiously.
External view suggests non-spatial vantage point.Potential extradimensional observation layer.Do not inform Stanley.
Behind me, the host spoke again.
"For convenience, most visitors call me Alex."
My pen stopped mid-sentence.
I turned.
"You introduced yourself as the Infinite Hotel."
"That is correct," he replied pleasantly. "But 'Alex' is easier for guests."
I studied him. Tall. Faceless. Perfectly composed.
"…Why Alex?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"I believe it has something to do with my face."
I slowly pointed at his complete lack of one.
He nodded as if this confirmed everything.
I wrote ENTITY POSSESSES SENSE OF HUMOR in bold, aggressive letters.
Then I asked the most important question available to me.
"Do you have rules?"
Alex gestured toward the lobby wall.
I followed his gaze.
Five rules. Clearly displayed. Simple. Direct. Disturbingly reasonable.
I read them twice.
Then I turned slightly away and wrote them down in invisible ink.
Carefully. Precisely. Repeatedly.
Some knowledge was not meant for casual readers.
When I finished, I flipped back to the first page and began sketching again—this time the host himself. Tall frame. Suit. The name tag.
Hello, I am the Infinite Hotel.
I underlined the phrase three times.
When I finally looked up, Alex had produced a menu and placed it gently on the desk.
I stopped writing mid-sentence and reached for it.
The page contained exactly one word.
Repeated.
Over and over.
FoodFoodFoodFoodFood
I looked up slowly.
Alex clasped his hands politely.
"I am unfamiliar with the names of the ingredients in the world they originate from."
I stared at the menu.
Then back at him.
Then at the journal.
And for the first time since entering the tree, I stopped writing entirely.