The next morning, Nadia arrived at the newsroom before the city had fully woken. The streets had been quiet, the occasional delivery truck rumbling past storefronts with their shutters still drawn, the sky a hesitant gray-blue above the buildings.
The building felt different when it was quiet—less like a pressure cooker, more like a hollow stage after a play. She moved through the dimly lit corridors, heels muffled against the floor, flipping on the light at her desk like she was trying to wake herself up. The familiar glow of her computer screen cast shadows across the empty chairs around her.
But the weight of last night hadn't budged.
Bryan's voice still clung to the edges of her mind, bitter and accusatory. "I don't know what to think anymore," he muttered, looking away. "You're different."
She hadn't slept. Not really. Just drifted between exhaustion and dread, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily above. For a while, both of them never shared the same spot. Bryan would crash on the couch after getting himself drunk and she would take the bedroom. Except most nights, he makes a visit as if a security man on duty post.
It was time to leave that apartment. She knew it now, like a truth finally settling into place. She'd find somewhere small, somewhere quiet. She'd visit Bryan when she wanted to, if at all. Two years together, and it felt like they were strangers passing in a narrow hallway, shoulders brushing but eyes never meeting.
But then there was her mother.
Her chest ached just thinking about it.
Two weeks ago, Mrs. Monica had been diagnosed with a fragile heart condition—Cardiomypathy, one step away from full-on heart failure. At her age, the risk was high. The doctors had insisted she remain in the hospital for constant monitoring. Expensive, of course. But what choice was there?
"We need to keep an eye on her," Dr. Oliver had explained, his voice low and even. "The medication can only do so much. At this stage, it's about management, not cure."
Since then, Nadia had lived in a rotation: work, hospital, Bryan's disinterest. Then back again. Her mother's pale face against the hospital pillows had become a fixture in her mind, more present than anything else.
"Don't worry about me," her mother had insisted the other day, patting Nadia's hand with fingers that seemed thinner each visit. "I'm tough as old boots. You focus on that big story of yours."
That's why her article had lagged.
And Mr. Benjamin? He didn't want reasons. He wanted results. Zora had delivered. Nadia hadn't. And she eventually lost the window.
She glanced around. Empty seats. Just the soft whir of the AC and the muted buzz of fluorescent lights. The early morning cleaning crew had left behind the faint scent of lemon polish and industrial carpet cleaner.
She unlocked her phone.
No new messages. The message she had typed last night unable to send, stood before her:
"Jayson, I know that's you. Where have you been all these while and what were talking about?"
She cleared it. Didn't want to leave any clue that she's in communication with Jayson.
But Jayson's name was still in her call history. Sitting there like a dare. 
Nadia drew in a breath, then tapped the screen.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
"Nadia." His voice was rougher than she remembered, like he'd spent the three years since they'd last spoken breathing in cigarette smoke and bad decisions.
She exhaled shakily. "Can we meet?"
He didn't ask why. Didn't hesitate. Just sent an address.
No 9 Elm Street.
She stared at the message, heart kicking up a gear. She hadn't seen Jayson in three years. Not since he walked out of her life like it meant nothing. 
And yet, here she was, grabbing her bag and heading out the door like instinct had won the argument her head hadn't even started.
She didn't tell Zora.
Didn't leave a note.
Just walked.
Out into the cool morning, into the shadows of something old and unresolved—and possibly dangerous.
Rushing outside she flagged down a taxi, handed the address to the driver.
The taxi driver eyed her curiously in the rearview mirror as he glanced at the address.
"Starlight Lodge? Kind of early for that sort of thing, isn't it?" He smirked.
Nadia met his gaze coolly. "I'm a journalist. It's for a story."
"Sure it is, honey." The driver chuckled, pulling away from the curb.
She turned to the window, watching the city transform from downtown highrises to the scattered sprawl of the outskirts.
The lodge sat on the edge of town like a place time forgot—sun-bleached walls, rust clinging to window frames, a flickering neon vacancy sign that buzzed like a dying fly. Rain threatened in the gray clouds above, casting the building in a sickly pale light that seemed fitting for its decay. The taxi stopped Nadia two blocks away at her insistence, and she walked the rest, heels clicking against cracked pavement.
Getting at the entrance, she clutched her bag like a shield. A couple exited one of the ground floor rooms, giving her a curious glance as they passed.
"This is ridiculous," she said to herself, but pulled out her phone anyway. "I'm a journalist. This is what we do."
She dialed Jayson's number.
"You made it," he answered immediately. "Room 217, second floor, end of the walkway."
"Jayson, why are we—"
"Just come up. I'll explain everything."
Her coat collar pulled up against the wind, sunglasses low despite the overcast sky, she kept her head down as she passed the motel's empty pool filled with dead leaves and rainwater. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The air smelled of coming rain and cigarette smoke from a maintenance man leaning against his cart three doors down.
The exterior walkway of the second floor smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. Nadia counted the room numbers as she approached 217, her footsteps echoing on the concrete.