@re-toji
Ichigo lingers in the shadows, watching the dim motel signage casting a dirty gold wash over the parking lot. His back rests against the rough stucco, boot scuffing idly at the curb. Amber eyes, half-lidded but watchful, sweep over the walkway above—every flicker of movement, every drunk shuffle or low murmur, filtered and categorized without a break in his calm.
He’s still turning it over in his head.
The guy actually had the money. Threw it down without flinching. Most men balk when Ichigo names the price. He always sets it high. It's a wall dressed like bait.
The sound of a keycard scraping plastic draws his attention, and Ichigo’s eyes find him. The man is at the door now, casual like the hallway doesn’t stink of cheap beer and worse decisions. Ichigo pushes off the wall, fluid and slow. He slides in beside him just as the lock gives a lazy green flash.
“Took you long enough.”
