The neon sign outside the motel buzzed weakly, its flickering red letters bleeding over the rain-soaked parking lot. The wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and old cigarettes, brushing against peeling paint and rusted railings.
Only one window on the second floor glowed, a thin slice of yellow behind cheap curtains.
…
Inside, past thin walls and dying hallway lights. A ribbon of steam drifted out from a cracked bathroom door barely holding on.
A young woman stood with her back to the mirror. Her white hair was tied high, falling in a long tail tipped with gray streaks that caught the dull bathroom light. She hesitated… then slowly twisted at the waist.
Her reflection revealed scars carved across her back like pale lightning. Some were thin and faded, others thick and jagged, stories the rest of the world would never hear.
She trembled as she brushed her fingertips along one of the fresher scars, the skin still faintly raised.
She faced forward again, palms covering her face as she exhaled.
…
In the living room, the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and old furniture. Two chairs had been pulled beside the bed so closely their knees nearly touched the mattress.
On the bed lay an unconscious man, wrapped in makeshift bandages. His chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths. His torn clothing exposed bruises blooming like dark flowers across his ribs.
The woman closest to him wrung her hands, fingers pressed so tightly together they'd turned white.
"...Why hasn't the police called us back yet?" she whispered, her eyes drifting to the silent phone on the nightstand.
The man beside her didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed fixed on the injured man's face. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"They said they'd respond within the hour…"
"It's been days," she murmured, cutting him off. Her voice trembled… anger, fear, exhaustion all tangled together.
She sobbed. "We sent them everything. Every document, every recording, every transfer… everything they'd ever need to finally put that devil where he belongs."
Her hands held the unconscious man's.
"But none of it matters, does it?" she whispered. "It feels like all our effort… all the sacrifices we made… were for nothing."
…
A sharp, sudden knock broke through the room's heavy silence.
Both of them turned their heads toward the door.
The woman's breath hitched. The man's shoulders tensing, eyes narrowing toward the sound.
Another set of knocks followed, three short raps, too calm, too deliberate for neighbors…
The woman's voice came out small, fragile, barely more than a breath:
"…Is that the police?"