The room was dim.
Not dark—there was a weak bulb somewhere above them—but it flickered just enough to make everything feel unstable. Like the light itself didn't trust the place.
It had to be around one, maybe two in the morning.
Neither Saul nor Jackson had checked.
Time didn't feel real in here anyway.
The walls were too thin. The air too recycled. Every sound from outside carried in just enough to remind them they weren't alone—but not enough to feel safe either.
Naomi and Cherie were gone.
The bedroom door had shut a while ago. No voices since. No movement.
Just quiet.
The kind that sits heavy.
Saul leaned against the edge of the table, dragging a hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat that had nothing to do with heat.
Jackson sat on one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, hands locked together like he was trying to hold something in place.
He exhaled.
Long.
