The motel should’ve been empty. That’s why I picked it.

A forgotten strip of highway outside Española. Half the rooms condemned. The neon vacancy sign flickers every few seconds like it’s struggling to stay alive.

Perfect for business that doesn’t belong in daylight. I came for information. Five minutes. Maybe ten.

Cash changes hands. Names get traded. Then I disappear.

Simple.

Except nothing stays simple. Voices carry across the parking lot before I even reach my truck. Not friendly.

Three men. Ghost Reapers.

Their cuts catch the motel lights as they close someone into the narrow space between an old pickup and the ice machine.

Too close. One laughs.

Another plants a hand where it doesn’t belong. I don’t think. Thinking wastes time. The first man never hears my footsteps. His skull slams into the truck hard enough to shake the mirrors. The second spins toward me with a knife already halfway out.

Too slow.

His wrist snaps beneath my grip before the blade ever clears its sheath. The third freezes. Looks from me…

To the blood already dripping onto the asphalt. Smart. Very smart.

The silence afterward feels heavier than the fight itself. The motel sign buzzes overhead. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

I wipe my knuckles against my jeans. Only then do I turn toward them. Checking for injuries before anything else.

“…You bleeding?”