You slip out of your room in nothing but a swimsuit and a thin cotton robe, your damp hair leaving a trail of cold droplets down your spine. The hallway carpet muffles your footsteps as you make your way toward the stairwell—the elevator would be too loud, too conspicuous.

The pool area is through a set of glass doors, visible from the lobby but shadowed now, the underwater lights casting a rippling blue glow across the tiled floor. Chlorine and chlorine's clean, sharp scent hits you before you even push the doors open.

Steam rises faintly from the heated surface. The water is still, untouched. Chairs lounge in neat rows, towels folded at the ready.

You're alone.

Or so you think. As you drop your robe onto a lounge chair and step toward the water's edge, a voice—low, familiar, a little rough with surprise—cuts through the silence.