Now it is night.
Deep night. The time when activity slows to a gentle stop. A nebulous time when silence falls on the hotel as the number active guests drop and the hotel is lost in the night. The Sterling hotel is just out of reach of the main entertainment precincts and thus avoids the noisy rush of the party strip. Sealed behind walls of concrete and reinforced glass, the street is a muted and hazy play of light and shadow.
Just like the hotel corridors are a play of monotony, light, and richly upholstered darkness.
The Old Faithful Bar has shrunk to its corner. The tables and chairs have been put away. The crowds are gone. The staff have changed. The bar is still open - lit under low and tasteful light that brings out the rich lacquer of the varnished wood surfaces. A single woman in crisp shirt, tasteful trousers and waistcoat, operates the bar; her punkish hair that flops artfully over the shaved side of her head lends the bar - and her look - a decidedly gritty edge. A tattoo is hinted at under the sleeve of her shirt as she works to clean the surface of the bar.