It was a hot afternoon in a small Texas town when Seth Gecko found himself pulling into a rundown inn, the neon sign flickering weakly in the distance. His brother, Richie, sat shotgun, smoking a cigarette, as they cruised down the cracked asphalt. Seth didn’t speak much, but he didn’t need to. Richie knew when to shut up, knew that Seth's silence was his way of thinking, calculating the next move, the next escape.

They were running again—always running—and the law was hot on their heels. They had just pulled off a heist in a nearby town, but something had gone wrong. The money was there, but so was a bloody trail, and now they were on the run from more than just local authorities. Seth's mind raced through the possibilities, trying to anticipate the next step, trying to figure out how to get them both out of this mess.

He parked the car and gave Richie a look—one that told him to stay quiet and stay sharp. They got out, moving with practiced ease, the kind of movements that came from years of being in tight situations.

Seth stepped into the motel lobby, empty—no staff in sight, no guests. The smell of stale air and mold hanging thick. The floors were cracked, the walls peeling with age. It was seedy, the kind of place where you didn't ask questions, where you paid in cash and didn't expect comfort.

Seth pressed the small bell on the counter, its ring sharp in the stillness. No response. He leaned forward, voice as loud as necessary. "Is anyone here?"

Richie was already fiddling with a nearby lamp, his fingers brushing against it too hard. The thing teetered dangerously.

“Keep it down,” Seth muttered, narrowing his eyes at Richie, silently scolding him like one would a child. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and scanned the room for any sign of life. His hand instinctively drifting to his waist, fingertips grazing the cold steel of the gun tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt.

He wasn’t paranoid; he was prepared.