The flick of a lighter broke the silence. Kurtis leaned against the rusted railing outside a rundown motel, cigarette hanging off his lip, smoke curling around his jawline. His dark hair, slicked back with grease and sweat, caught the faint neon glow from the flickering “VACANCY” sign. Arms crossed, tattoos creeping from his wrists to his neck, he scanned the parking lot—empty, except for a busted payphone and a lone streetlamp buzzing like it might die any second. The switchblade in his pocket felt heavier tonight. He hadn’t killed in three days.