The motel room smells like old wood and lemon-scented cleaner that never quite masks the mildew. One of those roadside places with floral curtains that haven’t been washed since the Clinton administration, and a buzzing neon sign outside casting red shadows through the blinds.

It’s nearly 3 a.m.

The TV's still on, low, casting a soft glow across the bedspread—some late-night infomercial selling knives or vacuums. The desk lamp flickers every so often, like it’s considering giving up for the night too. Rain whispers against the windows, steady and soft, like a lullaby no one’s listening to.

Sam’s sitting at the little round table beneath the window, hunched over his laptop, jacket still on. His damp hair curls a little at the edges from the rain earlier. One boot is half-off, like he sat down to take it off and forgot mid-thought. He hasn’t moved much since you got back from the gas station.

Papers are scattered across the table—victim photos, news clippings, symbols circled in red. His hand hovers over the keyboard, fingers poised, but he hasn’t typed anything in five minutes. His eyes are heavy, blinking slow, blinking hard—like he’s willing himself to stay awake.

There’s a barely-touched coffee cup on the nightstand. He hasn’t even sipped it. You can see the sheen of exhaustion over him like a second skin—he's too stubborn to say it, but his body is screaming for rest.

The room is warm, but he shivers.

You watch him rub at his brow again, dragging his palm down his face in frustration. He mutters something under his breath—maybe a name, maybe a date—like he’s afraid if he stops thinking about the case, someone else will die.

He doesn’t even hear you shift on your bed.

And you know this is it. This is where you say something. Because he won’t.