The ceiling of the Schmith guest room was a flat, uninspired expanse of off-white plaster, the kind of ceiling that demanded nothing of itself and succeeded simply by existing. At seven in the morning, it stared back at Mike with a blank, sterile indifference.
The room held a stifling, artificial warmth, courtesy of a radiator that had been humming since before his arrival.
It was the kind of hospitality that felt transactional rather than genuine, a calculated comfort designed to put a guest at ease without requiring any real effort from the host. The bed beneath him was an anomaly; it was too plush, too expensive for a mere guest room, feeling more like a throne than a temporary resting place.
It was a contradiction in fabric and spring, a luxury that didn't belong to the category it had been assigned.
