Ed had his daily routine now. Every morning, he went around the hotel and tried to make three new doors in three new spots. No more, no less. He could have spent the entire time he was in the hotel making doors -- made doors until it drove him insane. But he knew that was pointless. So, he had picked the arbitrary number of three and tried to make himself stick to it. Some days were better than others -- although, to be fair, he hadn't surpassed ten doors in one day yet.

Some of the doors he event went in. They went to some neat places. Some he avoided, because they looked ominous on the surface.

The last door of today proved to be different. As it was his last door for the morning, Ed took a few curious steps inside -- and instantly regretted it. He could feel the instant the center of balance on his body shifted, an always unwelcome change. He was reminded abruptly of learning to walk on his automail leg. He stared down at himself -- at his chest. A deep flush instantly surged across his face.

Without thinking, he pushed off his suddenly too big red jacket, his gloves falling off his hands. Abruptly, he was just in his tank top and pants -- he stared at his automail arm, the metal glistening up at him. Even it felt different. Lighter, the hand gone smaller to match his flesh one.

"What the hell," Ed exclaimed, stumbling back out of the room -- and promptly collided with someone else.