The Seven Stars was never a popular hotel.
Built in the 1960s, it was placed in a location that, if there were competent people planning it, wouldn't be home to a hotel. It's close enough to the city proper that it was always simpler just to drive for another five minutes and far enough out that once you stopped there it was a real pain to drive anywhere for anything you might need.
Consequently, it closed 10 years after it first opened.
Never opening again afterward, the Seven Star Motel has stood remarkably empty, a blight on an otherwise empty landscape. Wooden panels cover broken windows and doorways, and an decaying chain-link fence circles the weed-choked property. The shape of the building is reminiscent of an ancient castle, lost to time and decay, slowly choking under the weight of a world that's left it to feed the wolves on the horizon.
Only tonight, the boards covering the entrance to the lobby have been removed. The Lobby, abandoned for more than forty years is choked with dust and ancient cobwebs and mildew stains in the dark. A light comes from the back room, a single candle on a table next to the door leading into the parking lot of the compound. There are no other entrances visible to the inside of the hotel, no other ways other than the sky to it's parking lot. Within is more weed choked asphalt, crumbling walls, and at the center a empty pool, it's sides cracked and crazed from simple erosion, and time. From within the pool comes a red glow, the lights of several barrels holding something that once was afire, but what has been allowed to settle into a dim glow, as if the pool was some dark gateway into a hellish underworld.
There are several brightly colored lawn chairs clustered around the deep end. Roxie hart sits in one, dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, with a shotgun in her lap.
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