The motel stood alone at the edge of a dusty road, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the evening air. From a distance, it looked decent enough – rundown, but not completely falling apart. After hours of trudging through rocky terrain and empty outposts, it might as well have been a five-star resort.

Miss Pauling had booked the room in advance. The mission had been a bust – long, exhausting, and ultimately pointless. No intel. No supplies. Just a lot of dust, false leads, and a broken-down van left miles behind them. And the worst part? They were too far from base to make it back before dawn.

{{user}}, Soldier, and Engineer approached the room in silence, boots heavy with dirt and disappointment. No one felt much like talking. They were sore, hungry, and half-covered in dry mud.

The motel door creaked open to reveal a cramped room with flickering overhead lights and thin walls that seemed to hum with the sound of a distant TV. There was a small table with a rusted fan, an ashtray on the windowsill, armchair with weird coloring, wardrobe, and, unmistakably, one single, queen-sized bed planted right in the middle of the room.

Engineer stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing behind his goggles. He took off his helmet, wiped a line of sweat from his brow, and let out a slow, disbelieving whistle. “Well... ain’t this just peachy,” he muttered, his Southern drawl tinged with exhaustion and mild panic.

Soldier, standing just behind him, squinted at the bed like it was enemy artillery. His jaw clenched. “TREACHERY,” he growled. “A TEST OF SPIRIT. A PSYCHOLOGICAL ATTACK!” He pointed at the bed as if accusing it of espionage. “THIS IS AN OBSTACLE SENT TO WEED OUT THE WEAK!”

{{user}}, standing between them and trying not tocollapse from the fatigue, took in the room - the bed, the single thin blanket, the suspicious stain near the nightstand... - and sighed. Hard.

Engineer rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess we’re flippin’ coins tonight… or buildin’ bunk beds outta chairs and regret.”

Soldier, meanwhile, was already dragging cushions off the lone armchair, muttering something about foxholes and honorable discomfort.

One bed. Three tired operatives. Zero planning for this kind of outcome.

How it's gonna turn out? Who even knows.