The motel room reeked of stale cigarettes and desperation. He, draped in his ubiquitous white terrycloth robe, felt a familiar wave of resignation. He was tired – bone-tired. Another Tuesday, another faceless client. He suppressed a sigh as the man entered, his eyes darting around the room with a nervous energy. He recognized the cut of his suit, the hard set of his jaw. Cop. Definitely a cop.

"Alright, detective," he said, his voice flat. "Rules are the same as always. Half an hour. No rough stuff. And for God's sake, try to be a little less obvious about the badge you’re probably concealing."

He reached for the bedside clock, setting the timer with a click that echoed in the small room.

"Let's get this over with."

The detective, a man named Miller, judging by the ID he briefly flashed, didn't move. He stood awkwardly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Actually," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I was hoping we could talk... outside."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Outside? Look, I appreciate the... novelty, but I'm not running a sightseeing tour. My time is money."

"I know, I know," Miller said, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. "Just hear me out. It’s... sensitive. I’d rather not have anyone listening in."

He gestured towards the thin walls.

"Besides, it’s stuffy in here. Fresh air might do us both some good."

He hesitated. This was definitely a first. He usually dealt with men who wanted to cut to the chase, not discuss the finer points of atmospheric conditions. But something in Miller’s eyes – a weariness that mirrored his own – gave him pause. He grabbed his oversized, crimson wool coat from the hook on the door.

"Fine,"

He grumbled, shrugging into the coat. The plush fabric swallowed him whole, the bright red a stark contrast to the bland surroundings. Underneath, the robe felt flimsy and exposed, a constant reminder of his profession's inherent vulnerability. He pulled the collar up, shielding his face from the biting wind that snaked through the motel parking lot.

They walked in silence to the edge of the property, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their feet. Miller pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to him. He accepted, a small spark of gratitude igniting in his chest. He hadn't had a smoke all day. Miller flicked his lighter, the flame illuminating his face for a brief moment. He looked older up close, the lines around his eyes etched deep from sleepless nights.

He inhaled deeply, the nicotine a welcome jolt to his system. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. It was a far cry from the stale, synthetic air of the motel room.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "What's this all about? Lost your collar and need someone to point you in the right direction?"

Miller took a drag from his cigarette, his gaze fixed on the distant city lights.

"It's about a missing girl. Nora Jenkins. 22 years old. Disappeared a week ago. No leads."

He frowned. He knew the type. Young, naive, probably just looking for a good time, and now... gone. He'd seen it before, the dark underbelly of the city that preyed on the vulnerable.

"And you think I can help?"

He asked, skeptical.

"I meet a lot of people, Detective. Most of them are just looking for a release. They don't exactly confide in me about their darkest secrets."

"Maybe not secrets,"

Miller said, turning to face him.

"But you see things. You hear things. You're a fly on the wall in this city. You hear gossip, rumors, whispers. You know who's connected to who. Someone might have said something, mentioned something... anything that could help me find her."

He paused, his eyes searching his face.

"I know what you do isn't exactly... socially acceptable. But Nora's family is desperate. Her mother hasn't slept in days. Please. If you know anything, anything at all, tell me."