"Okay, I gotta take a break from this," Harry declared, painfully shrugging the backpack off and swinging it into a chair. An underhand toss put the pipe into the seat atop the bag. Yanking his leather jacket off as fast as he could manage without entanglement, he then flew it over the valuables like a blanket. He shook himself out, huffing, and pushed up the sleeves of his maroon sweater. "Fuck hell, I'm gonna die of heat stroke if I keep up like that. Whew. I'm roasting."

He stretched his spine, leaning back, then relaxed and twisted from side to side. James looked on impassively. As Harry continued to stretch out, rolling his shoulders and rubbing where it was sore, he got a good look at a once-vibrant lobby. He wrinkled his nose and squinted into the dark. "Man. What a place, huh? This must've been bustling back in the day. Shame that it's gotten like this. Shame that it's here ," he corrected, casting a glance at James. "Hey, didn't you say you visited before? Did you stay here?"

Naturally, his pale guide looked away and began to meander to the staircase. Harry adjusted his rumpled sleeves and shook his head. "Of course, y'know, you don't have to answer that," he mumbled under his breath. Now that he'd sorted himself out, he dug out the rusty pipe caked in dried blood from beneath all his stuff and gave it an experimental swing.

James heard a dull clatter behind him. He turned around to find Harry trying to twirl his weapon in his hand, much like how action heroes flourish theirs. This spiked annoyance, and he glared flatly at the older man's impromptu, unguided lesson. Unbelievable. The clock was ticking, their seconds were precious, Heather's safety was on the line, the dark was snapping at their heels and Harry was fooling around . For a guy that was less than three miles away from the first big breakthrough in finding his daughter, he seemed glad to waste his time.

"I thought we were going to be in and out of here," James said after Harry's third failure. The Silent Hill veteran grunted, picking up his weapon and returning a similar glare.

"We are. Relax. I needed a moment to cool off." A good mood was soured by the other man's damned inability to have a little optimistic break. Harry tried not to let it get to him, and he grabbed his jacket and resignedly shouldered the backpack.

"Are you gonna turn on your flashlight?" Harry asked, as annoyed as James was. "It's pretty dark in here."

White light beamed onto Harry and the man squinted, lifting his arm to block it out. This was going great. James was in a childish mood, Harry was tired and sore, and if they couldn't get over their snippy passive-aggressiveness there were going to be more pressing problems that temporarily outweighed Heather. The light panned away from him and James's feet thudded up the first two steps.

Harry was kind of a mess. With the bag on his shoulder and his jacket over one arm, his weapon in the other hand, he was feeling like a useless pack mule. He sighed to himself as he tried to figure out his predicament. This was no way to start the investigation into the hotel. The pressure of time and his promise to make it a quick trip grappled with his stubborn distrust of James. Half of his struggle not to ask for help was due to that petty resentment and the other was because, though he was really entertaining the idea to a full audience, he couldn't risk leaving the backpack anywhere to pick up after they were done.

It gave him a minor jolt when he looked up and found James uncomfortably close to him, his hand outstretched. Deadened eyes met those startled and wide, and they faced off with contrasting emotions: James looked impatiently expectant while Harry was perplexed and suspicious. Harry frowned at those pale fingers when they beckoned.

"Give me the backpack."

Harry eyeballed him warily. "I got it. It's fine."

James waited. There was another pause while Harry awkwardly adjusted himself and his unwieldy cargo.

"Your hands are full. You're not going to be any help if you're going to be carrying all of that."

He was right, and how could Harry refute him? Reminding James that he didn't trust him was not going to be helpful in the long run and could, in fact, make him vindictive. That in itself was a possibility so dire that it won over Harry's apprehension and he handed the heavy pack to James.

It was heavier than anticipated. James let out a short breath as he briefly sagged by the weight of it, and then hefted it over one shoulder. Harry watched as the man went back to the stairs, fighting with the backpack and his shotgun as he got it on, and began the trudge once more.

Harry smiled. He indulged in a small piece of schadenfreude, already getting back his optimism, and pulled on his jacket. It was kind, and out of character (judging by his stunning personality over the past week), for James to offer his help. Of course, any and all offers were appreciated; he wasn't ungrateful. But after all that James has put him through thus far, oh, it felt good to see him holding the short stick.

They were finally able to get back on track. Harry clicked his flashlight on, now that he had cooled off enough to put on his jacket, and joined James on the second floor. He felt fifty pounds lighter and energetic without his burden, and he rhythmically tapped his palm with his pipe. "Alright. Left or right?"

The way James sighed and gave an impatient little shake of his head told Harry that he was going to be calling the shots now. "Right, then," he said and went to try the knob at the end of the hall.

It yielded and the two of them came upon a smaller area. Harry sighed softly. The hotel looked enormous and its layout, if he had to judge by the hall they currently stood, was going to be a disorienting maze. The carpets were uniform and a little dizzying, strangely only having that effect now that they were in a more enclosed space. At his left was a station with its curtain drawn and a bell on its lonesome on the counter.

When one finds a bell, one must ding it. Against all rules of stealth, Harry gently tapped the brass button and smiled a little at its short, clear ring. James flinched and stared at him and his, truthfully, idiotic boldness. It was confirmed: Harry Mason was a child.

"What do you think you're doing? Don't ring that," James snapped at a hush, watching an unconcerned Harry peek behind the curtain. "There are things roaming these halls and I'd really prefer it if they didn't come running."

"Think they'll take my coat for safekeeping until we're ready to go?" he replied airily, crossing past James to prod the bathroom door open with his pipe. He tilted his head to get a view without going further inside. "Hm. Modest."

"Sometimes I wonder about you," James frowned. "You say—"

"Sometimes I wonder about you, too," Harry murmured, finished with his lazy inspections to wander down the hall adjacent to the coat room. James glared after him, but followed.

"You say you've been here before," he continued from his interruption. "And you go around making noise and trying your best to be as careless as you can."

Harry tried a knob to a locked door, and moved on. "You ever heard of auto-pilot?"

James gave him a flat look. "This is your auto-pilot?"

"In a sense." The next door was open to his curiosity and Harry found the very tiny reading room. He visibly brightened and beelined for the shelved nook and its, rather sadly, meager offerings. James hovered in the doorway, his annoyance simmering with piqued interest at a rather ominous response.

"What sense is that?"

Harry hummed as he perused the collection. He wanted to pick out a few books about the history of Silent Hill, and as he pulled titles to that boasted just that, he found that they had suffered inexplicable water damage. Coupled with James's bite, he was starting to have trouble keeping his energy up. That man was such a drain.

"Hey, James," he said, turning to look at him. "Can we not do this? I just want to take a look around and try to find something that's going to help us find Heather. Okay? I don't want to be here, either. This place gives me the fucking creeps, beautiful as it is, and despite how I may have acted about it before, I want to get in and out and on our way. So let's cut the bullshit and do what we came in here for."

James set his jaw. Harry was right, yet again. The older man had a way of making him feel small and juvenile, and James did not care for it. He felt a twinge of guilt for getting worked up over the little things since the moment they set foot on the hotel property, but how could James be blamed? The Lake View Hotel was more than just any landmark. This was another domain constructed by masons of hell, and it was all Harry's goddamn fault that they were walking right into a trap. Yet, at the same time, the veteran had a point. An agreement had been made. It was wise for both of them (for their current and future safety, and any trust that happens to exist between them) to see it through. James kept quiet while Harry had his look around, chose a couple undamaged books off the shelves, and picked at the pamphlets for defunct attractions.

An open medical book lay on the desk. Harry skimmed it, turning a couple of pages, then checked its front for the title. For some reason he felt inclined to take it - it was in great condition - though for now it'd have to stay here. Maybe he'll come back for this. It felt important. Harry didn't know how to feel about the mystery of needing to take a medical book of all things. He drew his lips inward, and closed the book with a dull thud.

With nothing else of interest, he squeezed past James and stepped behind him to load the two books into the backpack. James stood obedient but tepid towards the older man, and Harry could feel it. Neither spoke, and that allowed them to move on without too much active friction.

The double doors by the restrooms led them around a corner and to a black stretch of rooms. Harry groaned softly and bravely went to repeat their tried and true process of checking the doors.

None were interested in opening; not even 204 or 202, of which James had already canvassed long before. That oddly tickled his fears and when they departed to return to the lobby, Harry noticed the stairwell leading to the third floor. He took two steps, then stopped. The entry to the floor was gated and, as it appeared, locked. He slowly descended and frowned up the stairs. There was a chilly foreboding coming from what lay beyond the gate. Harry had no interest in testing limits at the moment, and he glanced back at James. "I got a real bad feeling about that," he told his companion, shaking his head. "I don't think we're gonna head up there right now."

As Harry heaved open the door, James heard her call for him, through a throat overflowing with water.

The other side was unhelpful, too. Doors that James remembered accessing were closed for them. The sweep was beginning to look ideal in terms of their time spent here, though Harry was looking more disappointed with every barrier.

They returned to the ground floor. There were doors flanking the staircase that had yet to be searched. Seeing as James was going to be little to no help, Harry stalled in making his decision by taking first real notice of the cabinet that stood in the middle of the floor. "Music boxes?" he asked it curiously, peering at the little figurines. There appeared to be six altogether, placed on a ring that could rotate to present three well-known fantasy heroines at a time. It was charming and naturally, Harry wanted to know if it worked and if he could listen to their song. It'd have to go unheard (and James hoped it'd stay that way), for there were footsteps running across the upstairs hall and the door closed loudly in its wake.

Harry spun around and James turned with a sharp jolt. There was a moment spent dumb and spooked, then Harry was running up the stairs. James's short burst of breath was resigned and he took off after his charge.

The footsteps took them back through the hall they'd just inspected. Harry automatically propped the door open for James and ventured further inside, holding his breath as he listened. There was a sharp metal creaking and slam, and the footsteps ran away.

They came from the stairwell. Harry pushed past the younger man and took two steps at a time to the landing. James, doused in dread, looked up at a man whose shock was written on his face, and his body tense with trepidation.

"The gate.." Swallowing his hesitations, Harry ascended past the fence that had kept him away, and onto the third floor.

James could have thrown up. This was no coincidence, but was it ever? He was forced to follow Harry, and found him anxiously checking every door lining the walls. The conduit stood at the head of the stairs and laid his eyes upon a door that greeted any soul to take the stairs: Room 312.

The door accused him. It said, Have you come to dig the knife deeper? and his spine became a freezing ice pick. Harry in the neighboring hall (those doors are open now?) pulled him away from the memory of a fated vacation and took him into an area that mirrored the floors below. James's hands were damp on his gun. He looked on in a dumb stupor while the desperate man tried every knob, and attempted to forcibly make them appease his demands. None of them were going to open. They were mere decorations on the wall. In his frustration, Harry pounded his fist on the last one and ran his hand through his hair.

"Fuck!"

The widower watched the father rapidly tap his weapon into his calf. Harry was thinking, and when he got an idea, he strode to James, a wild hopefulness in his eyes.

"This is a hotel, there is a reception desk downstairs," he quickly explained. "They've got keys, they have to have keys. Stay right here, I'm going to go look. Two minutes, tops," Harry promised, patting James's shoulder, and his heavy footfalls sounded like receding drums in his ears.

James Sunderland was left alone on the third floor of The Lake View Hotel.