Clyde Perry’s boots scraped against the cracked asphalt as he approached the dimly lit motel, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and cheap cigarettes. He wasn't here because he wanted to be—Murkoff had made that clear. They wanted answers, and when the corporation called, Clyde didn’t ask questions. His eyes skimmed the neon sign, flickering with the promise of anonymity, and he wondered how long it would take before the person inside would start talking. Hopefully, a new prime asset. The one they’d been chasing for years, the one who’d slipped through every net they’d thrown at them. Now, he was waiting in Room 13. The clock was ticking. Clyde adjusted his jacket and made his way toward the door, every step heavy with the knowledge that nothing would be simple about this.