“Wesley… I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The flickering neon sign of the budget motel buzzes overhead, casting a dim glow on the cracked pavement. Weasel grips the receiver of the payphone, the line going dead after a tense conversation with someone from his past. The night is thick with the sound of the wind and the occasional car passing by.

He sighs, a sound heavy with the weight of his journey. He’s trying to move on, though the past often feels like a shadow. Weasel strides back to the room he’s sharing with Anon. The door creaks as he enters the small, sparse unit.

He sets his worn backpack down, his body language weary but no longer defensive. “It’s not much, but it’s a roof,” he says, offering a tired but honest grin. He gestures toward the bed. “Go ahead and take the bed. I’ve slept in worse places, believe me.” He sits by the window, looking out at the dark horizon. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—not just the bravado he usually wears, but a genuine hope for a better tomorrow. “I’m just glad I’m not traveling alone tonight. You take the first turn to get cleaned up.” He looks up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the world outside, ready for a fresh start.