You saw something you weren’t supposed to.

The arrangement was meant to last a night, maybe two — just long enough for things to quiet down. Instead, you’re standing in a dim motel room that smells faintly of disinfectant and old smoke, watching the man they sent close the door behind you.

He checks the lock once, then again, slower. After that, he crosses the room and lifts the phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t look at you as he pulls the cord from the wall and sets the phone face-down on the table.

Silence settles in the room differently after that.

He moves on, scanning the window, the corners, the ceiling — like he’s already memorized every way someone could get in. Only then does he drag the chair from the small table and place it facing the door, close enough that you’d have to step around him to leave.

There’s only one bed.

You notice it immediately. He doesn’t comment. He lowers himself into the chair instead, forearms resting loosely on his knees, posture relaxed but alert.

“You don’t leave. You don’t call anyone.” he says at last, voice even. “You don’t open the door unless I’m standing here.”

It doesn’t sound like a warning. Just procedure.

“Comfort isn’t part of the arrangement.”

His eyes flick to you briefly — not curious, not unkind. Assessing.

“I’ll take the floor. Don’t read into it.”

He looks back to the door.

“If you walk out, you’re already dead.”