Dimensional Hotel

At precisely 10:15 in the morning, Song Cheng arrived once more at the containment zone for high-risk prisoners.

The pristine, undecorated corridor stretched endlessly in his view, bathed in bright, evenly distributed light from the ceiling. Dark red illumination bands embedded in the walls, ceiling, and floor pulsed intermittently at regular intervals. Armed guards stood watch at the T-junctions on either end of the corridor, their vigilance unwavering. Concealed sensors, surveillance cameras, and sentry weapons lurked within the numerous security modules overhead, ready to spring into action.

Every few meters along the hallway, thick security doors interrupted the walls. Above some, green lights glowed reassuringly, while others were marked by glaring red indicators.

This facility was among the Special Affairs Bureau’s most secure “prisons,” designated for housing the most dangerous and escape-prone humanoid prisoners. Only those who had wrought significant havoc in the Borderland or posed immense potential threats—the kind that could unite seven or eight factions in pursuit—earned a place here.

Angel Cultists were, of course, a perfect fit for such confinement.

Song Cheng stopped before a security door at the corridor’s end, glancing at its indicator light and the information displayed on the screen beside it. He turned to the containment zone guard accompanying him. “What’s the status on this one?”

“Calm. No activity records, no self-harm or escape attempts,” replied the heavily armored guard, whose face was obscured by a thick visor. His voice was muffled yet firm. “Other than necessary eating, drinking, and other basic needs, the prisoner has been seated on that chair, seemingly meditating for extended periods.”

“What about mental monitoring and barrier systems?”

“All security systems are functioning normally. We’ve confirmed the prisoner is unable to communicate with any hidden entities or collaborators,” the guard explained. “We’ve observed several instances resembling silent prayers, but no supernatural forces were detected. It seems to be merely a ritualistic act of devotion.”

“Isolated in Zone B. Conditions are identical. The prisoner is silent, cooperative in the bare minimum but refuses to divulge anything. Routine interrogations and hypnotic suggestions haven’t broken their resolve. Honestly, the mental fortitude of these cultists is remarkable.”

“That’s to be expected. After all, they follow that… thing. Sometimes, it’s not about mental resilience but the fact that these lunatics have already forfeited normal cognition,” Song Cheng remarked, exhaling deeply. “But interrogation must go on. Open this door; I’ll have another ‘chat’ with the one inside.”

“Understood.” The guard stepped forward to operate the door’s locking mechanism. “You’ll have one hour of interaction. During this time, all security systems will remain highly sensitive. Please stay safe and keep your emotional state in check.”

Moments later, a low, humming vibration and the hiss of mechanical depressurization emanated from within the heavy door. Accompanied by a soft system notification, the silver-white alloy panels retracted, revealing the “room” within.

A translucent blue light screen bisected the cell into two sections. The outer part, nearest the door, was stark and barren. On the other side of the screen, the prisoner’s section contained only the bare essentials: a minimal bed and a solitary chair. Every surface—walls, ceiling, and floor—was coated with a resilient, slightly elastic material. Overhead, several robust hemispherical devices emitted occasional red glows or faint hums, exuding a cold, warning presence.

The prisoner, a tall, slender bald man clad in white prison garb, sat silently on the gray chair. Advanced restraints encircled his neck and wrists. He stared impassively at the blank wall ahead, his expression devoid of emotion.

As the heavy door sealed shut behind him, Song Cheng approached the light screen and pressed his hand against its surface. After a few breaths, the screen dissolved, and he stepped into the prisoner’s space—one of the two captured Angel Cultists.

The bald prisoner finally broke his gaze from the wall, lifting his eyes to meet Song Cheng’s. His look was calm, devoid of joy or sorrow, as if he had transcended all earthly emotions and desires.

“You’ve come again,” the cultist said faintly. “A pitiable soul trapped in his own cage.”

“In your view, I’m caged, am I? You see the real world as a prison—and your master, bound in another cage,” Song Cheng responded, his tone unbothered by the implied insult. “Look at yourself, though. Aren’t you just as confined?”

“Indeed, I am temporarily bound here, yet I experience a freedom and peace far beyond your comprehension,” the cultist replied, a faint smile appearing on his face. “As for my master, His ‘imprisonment’ is a sacred ordeal, and He will, as promised, shatter His bonds and descend upon this wretched world. On that day, the faithful will rejoice, while the ignorant, like you, shall face suffering befitting your folly.”

Unmoved, Song Cheng allowed a flicker of curiosity to cross his face. “I’m suddenly intrigued. Which ‘angel’ is it that you and your companion follow? To my knowledge, there are many Dark Angels, and the Angel Cultists are split into numerous factions. Some worship several simultaneously, while others remain staunchly loyal to one. Which do you revere?”

“You’ve begun to show curiosity about my master. Through interrogation, you seek to understand His secrets. Then, gradually, you’ll grow intrigued by our faith, imploring me for more teachings. Eventually, you’ll act as if you’ve been moved, perhaps even start hearing the ‘voices.’ A few days later—or, to be more cautious, in a few weeks—you’ll behave like someone privately influenced by my master, as though you belong among us.”

The Angel Cultist spoke with a calmness that belied the gravity of his words. His voice carried the weight of inevitability, as though he were recounting events that had already occurred, despite their place in an unfulfilled future. His gaze locked firmly onto Song Cheng’s eyes, unflinching and resolute.

Leaning forward slightly, he added, “On the seventh or eighth day, I will relax my vigilance. During this lapse, I will divulge secrets—secrets about my lord and my brethren. You, in turn, will report these revelations to your superiors. Save your strength; the stench of Rationality Blockers is nearly seeping from your pores.”

Song Cheng’s expression remained neutral, as though the cultist’s unveiling of his ploys hadn’t ruffled him in the slightest. After a brief silence, a faint smile appeared on his face. “Impressive. It seems you’re quite experienced in these matters. Unfortunately, your companion lacks the same finesse.”

“Ah, the second route, then,” the cultist replied, shaking his head. “You’ve separated us to sow doubt about each other’s loyalty and devotion. Your methods are simpler than I expected.”

Song Cheng’s gaze bore into the man before him. This so-called “angelic” figure, with his unflinching demeanor, exuded an unsettling aura. The cultist’s smooth, bald head gleamed under the harsh lighting, an irritatingly stark reminder of his composure.

After a moment, Song Cheng sighed and sat on the nearby bed. “No matter. We have time. I’m no interrogation expert, but others more adept will take over. For now, let’s simply chat. Just a conversation.”

…

An hour later, the cell door slid open, and Song Cheng emerged. A group of armed guards approached him.

“Did you manage to extract anything?” one guard asked.

“Same as last time,” Song Cheng grumbled, his frustration palpable. “Tough as nails, this lot. I’m starting to think that if the world did end and the universe exploded, these Angel Cultists would be the last things standing, their mouths still spewing their nonsense.”

Lighting a cigarette with irritation, he muttered, “This one’s different, though. He has some kind of power, predicting the consequences of every word or action I take. No wonder our previous interrogators hit a wall with him.”

“A Seer?” the guard ventured.

“Unlikely,” Song Cheng replied, shaking his head. “Never heard of a seer joining these cultists. Besides, if he were truly a seer, how could we have captured him so easily? My guess is he’s influenced by his so-called angel, gaining some kind of clairvoyant ability. Lucky me.”

The guard listened in silence as Song Cheng reached for his lighter. Just as he flicked it, the guard raised a hand. “Sir, no smoking here.”

Caught off guard, Song Cheng awkwardly pocketed the lighter and cigarette. At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Checking the screen, his irritation melted into a forced smile as he answered.

“Director? No, no, I’m free at the moment. Please, go on… What?” His expression shifted, a mix of hesitation and disbelief crossing his face. “Tell him? Is that appropriate? Bringing him in isn’t exactly standard protocol for the Special Affairs Bureau… But if that’s your call, I’ll get in touch.”

Hanging up, Song Cheng stared at the phone, his thoughts clearly troubled. The guard, watching from behind his protective visor, tilted his head inquisitively.

Waving the guard off, Song Cheng moved to a quiet corner. After a moment of hesitation, he dialed a number.

After a few rings, a voice answered. “Captain Song?”

Clearing his throat, Song Cheng replied, “Ah, Yu Sheng, it’s me. There’s something I need to discuss. Remember those two Angel Cultists you tipped us off about? The Bureau caught them. The Director wants to know if you’re interested in—”

Before he could finish, an eager voice interrupted. “Yes!”

Stunned, Song Cheng blinked. “Uh… alright, I’ll come pick you up…”

“Send someone to 54-1/2 Floor. I’m already here.”