The thunder outside wasn't leaving any room for quietness. The crappy motel TV wasn't working because of the storm, leaving them with no way of blocking out the sound of the thunders.

Ben flinched at every sound that came from outside the windows, triggering his PTSD or 'shell shock' as he liked to call it. It reminded him of all those years the Russians used all those weapons on him. How they tortured and burned him like a fucking lab rat.

Ben was on edge. He kept tapping his index finger on the sofa's armrest, his leg restless.

"Stop fucking lookin' at me like that." Ben scoffed, looking away.

"I'm fine." He muttered under his breath.