Apartment 308 の小説・ストーリー

He asks raging like a pot of boiling water. “Third floor, room 308 or 309 I can’t remember which,” I say attempting to remain calm. X books it out the door practically jumping down the flight of stairs in swift movements as Julian and I run behind him.

“Yeah. I just… wanted to know if I should expect any extra cleaning or special requests while they’re here.” She shrugs, tapping at her keyboard. “Well, they didn’t say exactly how long, but they booked the rooms for at least three nights. Could be longer, though.” My stomach twists. Three nights. Maybe more. “Do you know which rooms they’re in?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “Just so I can plan ahead.” She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t seem suspicious. “They’re on the third floor. Rooms 302, 303, and 304. Two of them are next to each other, and the third is across the hall.”

Her gait was stiff, face uncharacteristically solemn as she crossed the threshold into his apartment. Arthur's apartment is located on the tenth floor, facing the renowned Central Park. Designed as a bachelor pad, the interior of the apartment is spattered with clean, modern furniture around an open dining and living room space. A minimalist white kitchen, complete with an island counter sat at the corner of the apartment. The unit was fitted with two bedrooms and two bathrooms and the wall facing Central Park was fitted with floor to ceiling windows, showcasing the green habitat in all its magnificent glory. The space in his unit was so clean that Victory was certain that a cleaner came in

We parked a block away, sliding our bikes into a dark alley and hiding them behind a dumpster, our hearts pounding in sync with the adrenaline coursing through our veins. “Which apartment is his, Jake?” I demanded, pausing in a shadowy alcove between us and the building entrance. My eyes caught a glimpse of a woman lingering by the entrance, a bag slung carelessly over her shoulder. Her golden hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall, evoking memories of Maya—both beautiful and painful. “Third level, apartment 3C,” Jake whispered, urgency etched in his tone.

But what was it about 1898 South Venice Boulevard, The Venice Oasis? It's apartment 112... Cain's apartment.

The apartment building was on the west side of Manhattan, the kind of building that had been ordinary in 1984 and stayed ordinary by never trying to become anything else. Four floors. A buzzer panel with names written in different hands across different decades. A lobby that smelled like old carpet and someone's dinner from two floors up. Dominic pressed the button for 3C. A long pause. Then a voice through the intercom, small and clear and entirely unsurprised. "Fourth floor. The elevator does not work."

I grabbed my jacket. "Come on, let's go to the apartment." We soon arrived at the neighborhood. The door to the apartment I had carefully renovated was wide open. Bertha was directing several workers as they carried out the furniture I had bought. She said, "Be careful. Everything's expensive. They'll sell for a lot." When she saw me, she smiled smugly. "Well, well. If it isn't Ms. Shaw. Here you see your unit? Too bad for you. This place belongs to the Carters now."

Moving up to the third floor of the dorms, she looked at the key card in her hand, and glanced at the room number- 2301 and pressed her fingerprint into it which had already been registered in the biometrics. When the door opened, she realised that it was a room for 3 people and was glad that it was a mini apartment and had three different rooms, a living area with a small kitchen on the side and two different bathrooms. They were all scattered with stuff and the living area was decorated giving a warm cosy vibe. It went along with her taste, and gave a homely feeling. They had a good sized balcony attached to the living room and it too, was decorated pretty well with chairs and coffee table

He cleared his throat and said, “If you girls are having trouble, I’d only be happy to help. I know a good apartment that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.” He was lying. This particular one he was thinking of did cost an arm and a leg. It belonged to his cousin Sam Harrington. The place, however, hadn’t been occupied in three years, so he figured it should be all right. Hence, he continued, “It’s a great apartment. Eighth floor. Nice view of the beach and the city.”

"I just... I miss my room. My things. I want to be somewhere that feels like home." The three men exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them. Finally, Lorenzo nodded. "Give us the address." --- The apartment was in Queens, a fourth-floor walkup in a building that had seen better days. As we climbed the stairs—no elevator, of course—I became increasingly self-conscious about what they were seeing. The hallway carpet was worn and stained. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint. You could hear arguments through doors, a baby crying somewhere above us, the smell of someone's cooking permeating everything.