POV : Fiona
The neon sign outside the motel window flickered with a buzzing red light, casting bleeding shadows across the peeling wallpaper. It sputtered and hummed occasionally plunging the small room into total darkness before roaring back to life with a crimson glare.
It was a run-down, cash-only establishment on the extreme, forgotten outskirts of Paris— the kind of place that didn't ask for a passport or a reason for your stay, just as long as you slid the crumpled euros across the scratched plexiglass counter upfront. The walls were paper-thin, transmitting the sounds of traffic. The bedspread smelled deeply of stale smoke, bleach, and decades of regret. Outside, the storm raged on, the rain seriously lashing against the cracked glass of the window.
It was the exact, undeniable
