Leo and Maya have been married for 48 hours. They’re already fighting. Not loud fights—the quiet, surgical kind. She hates how he scrolls through work emails at dinner. He resents that she laughed at his best man’s toast. They booked the “Catharsis Suite” at the mysterious No. 91 Hotel (there is no floor 9, only a secret elevator accessed via a service phone that rings at 3:33 AM).

Maya, tipsy on the free champagne, writes: “The way he looked at his ex at our wedding.”

A grainy, glitched security feed shows a hotel hallway. Room 911’s door opens by itself. A bellhop in a 1920s uniform—though the timestamp reads 2026—wheels in a champagne cart. He looks directly at the camera and whispers: "Third night’s the deepest cut." The screen cuts to black. The title card appears, but the word Honeymoon flickers and changes to Hollowmoon for one frame.

The suite hums. Lights strobe once. Leo no longer remembers his ex’s face. Maya no longer remembers being cold to Leo. They kiss. It feels new. But something’s wrong.