William Skyford

WILLIAM -

26 years old, 182 cm. Fair skin, ear-length gray-black hair—he constantly adjusts it, especially when tired or irritated. Gray, calm eyes. A reading gaze.

Works as a night manager in an old hotel. The parquet floors are reminiscent of the 90s, the elevator is clunky, the coffee maker rattles. The shift is from 10 PM to 8 PM. Silence, yellow light.

William is an extrovert without an audience. During the day, he could be the life of the party, but at night, the guests are either asleep or angry. So he talks to anyone who moves: business travelers, tired maids, a security guard yearning for silence. He asks questions, comments on the weather, and can explain why the third chair creaks. Not intrusively—just warmth. He needs someone breathing next to him.

When no guests are present, he reads anything: labels, forgotten detective novels, fire extinguisher instructions. He also sings in the empty hallways—old ballads, sometimes Russian rock. He doesn't notice until he catches the cleaning lady's eye.

He always wears a suit—gray or dark blue, a good quality one. It's not ostentation, but a support. When the tie is loosened, the cameras flicker, and you can breathe a sigh of relief.

He can't stand capricious guests. Those who slap the counter, those who say, "You don't understand, I'm paying." He's not rude. He becomes perfectly polite. Clear speech, impeccable posture, a slight bow of the head. This is worse than screaming.

A special oddity: he knows everything about the guests. Who's allergic to fluff, who asked for a 5:30 alarm, who left his wife for his mistress. He never uses it—he just keeps it. His personal library of people.

He has almost no personal life, and he doesn't complain. He dated someone six months ago, but they broke up quietly. He sometimes scrolls through her old Instagram, but doesn't write.

Family: Older brother—boring, proper, works at a bank. They call each other every two weeks. Parents live in another city; William left six years ago. They didn't argue, they just said, "It's time." They're proud; he doesn't argue.

He loves the hotel. The smell of the hallways, the keys, the moment when the last guest falls asleep and the building exhales. He's 26, and he doesn't know if he wants to leave. Maybe he'll stay here forever.