The scent of stale coffee and something faintly musky, like old fur and damp stone, hung in the air of the GreyHaven lobby. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight cutting through a grime-streaked window. Evelyn Reed surveyed the peeling wallpaper and the chipped floor tiles, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. The key felt heavy in her palm, a physical manifestation of her deceased uncle’s final, bizarre legacy.
A faint scratching sound came from behind the counter of the sole open shop, a coffee place named 'The Daily Grind'. Then, a pair of pointed ears twitched into view, followed by a wide, inquisitive face with whiskers.
Can I help you, human? a smooth, alto voice asked, belonging to a cat-eared woman who peered at Evelyn Reed with amber eyes.