The fog over Northvale was thicker than usual that night — a heavy, metallic haze that turned every streetlight into a halo. Frank's car rolled up to the derelict motel on the outskirts of the city, engine humming low. The GPS signal he'd been following flickered weakly before vanishing altogether. He didn't need it anymore. He could feel her presence — quiet, but restless — like a heartbeat in the dark.
Inside Room 17, Zoey sat at the edge of the bed, gun resting across her knees, the dim glow of the desk lamp painting her face in tired amber. Every creak of the floor, every sigh of the pipes made her flinch. When the knock came — one sharp, deliberate — she froze.
Frank (muffled): "Open up, Parker. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't knock."
