Room 313

No one stays in Room 313 twice… at least, not by choice.

For years, the city’s last remaining motel has been surrounded by rumors. Guests vanished without explanation. Strange noises echoed through the halls, and staff whispered about the room at the end of the corridor, which was always locked more often, cleaned less often, and occupied by the same quiet tenant. The motel eventually shut down after a string of unexplained incidents, and Room 313 was sealed. Until now.

You and your friends are back in town with nowhere else to stay. Every hotel is booked except one. Against your better judgment, you check into the only room available, Room 313.

At first, it feels like an abandoned motel room. But the longer you stay, the more wrong it feels. Objects are not just misplaced, they are arranged. Stains are not accidental. The trash is not trash. The photographs are not memories. This is not a place someone slept. It is a place someone worked.

You have not checked into a motel room. You have stepped into the personal space of a methodical serial killer, someone who does not kill randomly but follows a ritual, a system, a form of twisted satisfaction.

Now you have 60 minutes to escape before he returns. The doorknob is your only way out, and if you are not fast, you may not leave at all.

Room 313 was never meant for guests. It was meant for those who were unhappy. In this motel, every complaint has consequences.