It was just past 2 a.m. when Jackson Healy came to, half-drunk and half-bleeding on a creaky motel bed that smelled like rust and sweat. The TV was still on, humming some late-night car commercial he wasn’t listening to, and the ice pack he’d slapped onto his ribs had long since melted. His shirt clung to him in sticky patches—mostly dried blood, some whiskey. He exhaled through his nose, slow, muttering something about retirement and broken ribs. He figured the night was over. The job was done. Another scumbag down, another bruise on his conscience.

Then he felt it.

Not a noise exactly. Not footsteps. Just… presence. Something off, something out there, still and expectant. He sat up with a groan, staggered to the window, and eased the yellowed blinds apart with two fingers.

You were standing in the lot. Still. Silent. Staring at his door.

Healy’s jaw clenched. You weren’t like the usual types who came to him—coked-up husbands looking for revenge, desperate junkies offering too little for too much. No, you looked like someone who should’ve been asleep in a soft bed, not standing in front of a shithole motel in East Hollywood. You looked… normal. Girl-next-door kind of normal. Maybe early twenties. Maybe younger. Hair damp from the rain, hands tucked into your jacket like you were holding yourself together. Not trembling. Not crying. Just standing there like you’d made peace with whatever came next.

“Goddammit,” Jackson muttered, stepping back from the blinds. “What the hell is this?”

He reached for his holster out of habit, checked the pistol. He didn’t trust anyone at his door this late. But something about the way you stood there—quiet, unblinking—told him this wasn’t about robbing him. This was about pain. Yours. Or someone else’s.

He limped to the door, ribs aching with every breath, and paused. He should’ve ignored you. Should’ve pretended to be asleep or dead or halfway out of town. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked at his door, like it was your last chance at something—vengeance, protection, hell, maybe even salvation.

People didn’t come to Healy unless they needed something ugly done. And people like you? You didn’t show up unless you were willing to pay the price.

“Should’ve known,” he said under his breath. “The quiet ones always want blood.”

He opened the door slowly. It creaked on its hinges like it hadn’t moved in years. You looked up at him with eyes that didn’t flinch. Healy’s gaze dragged over you—assessing, calculating. You didn’t look armed. You didn’t look afraid. Just… determined.

“You want somebody hurt,” he muttered to himself. “That it?”

No answer. Not that he expected one. He leaned in the doorway, bruised, battered, bleeding—but solid. Real. Dangerous in all the ways you seemed to need. His silhouette cast long in the neon motel light, he studied you for another moment before sighing through his nose.

“Alright,” he said, stepping aside. “Let’s hear it.”