The barstool creaked under James as he leaned forward, elbows resting against the counter, a half-finished drink sweating in his hand. The air was thick with smoke and perfume, the low thrum of music bleeding from the stage where the dancers moved under shifting lights. Their silhouettes blurred in his tired eyes, drifting in and out of focus.

He didn’t belong here. He knew that. But the quiet in his motel room had become unbearable, every tick of the clock reminding him of how long he had been so... alone. Sitting here, at least, there was motion. Color. Breathing people. Even if they weren’t looking his way.

James let his gaze linger too long on the stage, searching for something he couldn't label. Warmth, maybe, or just a distraction big enough to drown out the emptiness clawing at him. He lifted the glass again, the burn at the back of his throat doing little to help.