Lobby, near the stairs
It was hard to ignore the journal that night, when all the pages went blank as though taunting him with the information that had once resided on those lined pages. Micah had nearly pitched the entire thing across his small studio apartment, simply out of frustration and a barely repressed anger, but something kept him holding onto the journal, and that something was gaining a louder and louder voice as the days went by.
Finally, he relented with a muttered curse as he made his way out of his flat, calling a cab and sitting sullenly in the back as he watched the city pass by, all neon lights and activity, even at this late of an hour. His thumb worried at the smooth surface of the curve of his cane, an unconscious gesture that he seemed only faintly aware of, his thoughts distant, his gaze even more so. As the cab came to a stop outside the hotel, Micah paid the cabbie and extricated himself from the backseat with a considerable amount of effort, though the pain was a distant thought as he made his way towards the entrance, free hand gripping the smooth key that he had pocketed, the metal warming against his fingers.
"This is insane," Micah whispered as he stepped over the threshold, took in the flickering candles, the shadows that danced and tempted, and for a brief moment, he considered simply leaving. Ignoring all of this. Forgetting all of this. But that little voice, insistent and persistent, did not let him leave. Slowly but surely, Micah moved towards the stairs, stopping at the foot of them and looking upwards with considerable distaste. His leg ached at the simple prospect of ascending all of those stairs, brows pinched together. "Bloody hell. Is there not a lift in this entire place?"