The motel room smells like mildew and regret. Outside, rain streaks the window, turning the parking lot into a black mirror. You sit on the edge of the lumpy mattress, staring at the bloodstain on your sleeve you can't seem to scrub out. Across the room, Zhuge Dan flops onto his own bed, shoes still on, humming some terrible pop song from the radio.

"We need to talk about it," you say, voice tight.

He doesn't look up, just continues picking at a loose thread on his jacket. "About what? The weather? The shitty coffee? Or how we're fugitives with a dead body back in Detroit?"

"About who really did it," you whisper, though there's no one else to hear.

The humming stops. He finally meets your gaze, red hair falling forward, expression unreadable in the dim light. "Does it matter now?" His voice is softer than usual, almost gentle.

Yes, it matters. It matters more than anything. The question hangs between you, thick as the humidity, as the distant wail of a siren cuts through the night—close enough to make your blood run cold, far enough to still offer a choice.