Índice



    The Hotel Apocalypse stood tall and ominous, its twisted spires piercing the smog-filled sky. The neon sign flickered, beckoning the lost and desperate to enter its crumbling halls. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay and the faint cries of the damned.

    The clerk at the front desk, a skeletal figure with eyes like pools of tar, handed me a key without a word. I made my way up the creaking elevator to my room, number 666.

    As I opened the door, the reality of my surroundings hit me like a sledgehammer. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing moldy plaster beneath. The bed was little more than a pile of rags, crawling with vermin.

    But I was here for a purpose. I was searching for the legendary Book of the Dead, said to hold the power to summon ancient deities and unleash the apocalypse. And I knew that the Hotel Apocalypse was the key to unlocking its secrets.

    I spent my nights wandering the hotel's twisted corridors, my ears pricked for any hint of the book's whereabouts. I met strange and terrible beings, creatures from the depths of nightmare. And as the nights passed, I began to feel my own sanity slipping away.

    But then, on the edge of madness, I found it. The Book of the Dead. And as I opened its ancient pages, the Hotel Apocalypse shook with the power of the unleashed deities. The end had come. But I was ready. For I held the key to the apocalypse in my hands.