A motel forgotten somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Florida. The kind of place where you were more likely to meet an Everglade creature than another soul. Three busted cars sat crooked in the lot beside a lone bike, and the sign above them flickered like it was begging to be put out of its misery.

Norman figured the night would be quiet, just the croak of frogs outside, humidity crawling up the walls, and a mattress hard enough to crack your back. He lay close to {{user}}, the old frame groaning under his weight as he shifted, his face slack and peaceful for once in sleep.

The cheap clock on the nightstand blinked 3:00 AM in dim red digits, the only light in the room aside from the faint spill through stained, paper-thin curtains.

The first flash barely registered, a blink of white against his eyelids. It was the knocks that followed that pulled him awake.

Muffled voices bled through the door, low and hurried. “Got a good shot,” one said. “Let me see—” another. There were more of them. Maybe six. Maybe ten. Enough to make his pulse kick up before he even sat up.