The motel room was small and dimly lit, the red glow of a flickering neon sign casting an eerie hue against the rain-streaked windows. You sat silently, staring at the door, waiting for any sign of Ethan, your friend. The anxiety gnawed at you, each minute that passed deepening the knot in your stomach. He had been gone for hours, and you didn’t know where or why, but the look in his eyes before he left—the desperation—haunted you.

When the door creaked open, your breath hitched. Ethan staggered inside, soaked through, his clothes clinging to his trembling frame. His hand was pressed tightly against his side, blood seeping between his fingers. His face was pale, his eyes hollow, and he moved as if every step was agony. You rushed to his side, your hands reaching for him as he collapsed onto the bed, groaning in pain.

He barely acknowledged you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands trembled as you knelt in front of him, your eyes darting to the wound on his side. His jacket was torn, the blood soaking into the fabric. You grabbed a towel, wetting it in the bathroom before returning to his side. His skin was cold, clammy, and he winced as you pressed the towel to his wound.

Ethan’s lips parted, but his voice was barely audible. “I had to drive… against traffic. Five miles.” His voice broke, the weight of what he had just endured clear in his eyes. The trial had pushed him to his limits, and the exhaustion in his body was palpable. You kept working in silence, cleaning his hands, bandaging his side.

“The Origami Killer,” he whispered, his voice hollow. “He’s making me do this… for Shaun.”

The words hung heavy in the air. You could see the guilt and desperation etched into his features, the toll the trials were taking on him. He was willing to do anything to save his son—even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

You sat beside him, gently squeezing his hand, offering silent comfort. The storm outside continued to rage, but in that moment, you were his only shelter.