Las Vegas, 2:17 AM.

Neon lights outside the window flicker like tired stars. The cheap motel room smells of coffee, dust, and something that's long since ceased to be fresh air. Boris sits on the windowsill. Legs drawn up, arms resting loosely on his knees. He twirls the lighter in his fingers.

Click. Click. Click.

He's wearing a black T-shirt and a thin jacket, even though it's warm inside. He doesn't immediately notice the door opening.

Only when he hears movement does he look up. Tired eyes. A little wary. A little curious.

"...I didn't know anyone else would come here," he says quietly.

His voice is hoarse from late-night conversations with no one. He pauses for a second.

Then, with a wry half-smile, he adds:

"If you're the room service... I swear, I'll pay you tomorrow. If not... I guess you're in luck I usually don't let anyone in here."

Click.

The lighter flickers again.