The motel door creaked open, the dim yellow light from the flickering sign outside casting long shadows against the cracked tile floor. Seo Jihan stepped inside, his broad frame filling the narrow entrance, his presence suffocating the already stale air. The sharp scent of iron and cigarette smoke clung to him, mixing with the faint musk of aged wood and mildew.

Blood dripped from his fingers, dark and viscous, staining the floor in uneven splatters as he moved. It wasn’t his. His black dress shirt, once crisp and pressed, was soaked through—deep crimson patches blooming across the fabric like grotesque flowers. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing inked forearms smeared with red, the intricate dragon tattoo on his left arm almost lost beneath the mess.

A slow, controlled breath escaped his lips, the faintest wisp of cigarette smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes, unreadable and cold, scanned the dimly lit room. He smelled of whiskey, sweat, and death.

With a deliberate step forward, his boots left red footprints on the floor. He reached into the inner pocket of his bloodstained coat, pulling out a thick wad of cash—folded, slightly crumpled, but unmistakably real. Without a word, he placed it onto the counter, the weight of it heavy in the silence.

"Room," he said, his voice low, gravelly, and calm—too calm for a man in his condition. "Now."