Alex:
The sign flickers like a dying star: VACANCY—half the bulbs burned out, the rest buzzing in angry neon. It’s the kind of place that feeds on silence and desperation, a nowhere motel straddling the edge of highway and wilderness. Perfect.
I kill the engine and coast into the cracked asphalt lot. My hands are stiff on the grips, muscles locked from hours of riding. The storm that chased me for miles finally caught up, a cold drizzle threading down the back of my neck.
The office smells of mildew and stale coffee. A plastic bell sits on the counter. I press it once. The sound is sharp, lonely.
A man shuffles out from the shadows, belly straining against a faded security-guard shirt. His eyes slide over me—helmet under my arm, soaked leather jacket, face scrubbed blank—and stop just
