There was still daylight left when Trafalgar stepped out of the motel. Not much, but enough.
The narrow street behind him felt stagnant—dim lanterns, worn stone, the faint smell of damp wood and old fabric. Functional. Forgettable. Exactly the kind of place you slept in because it made sense, not because you wanted to.
And right now, he didn't want to.
'I'm not tired,' he told himself, adjusting the strap of his bag. 'And I'm definitely not in the mood to stare at a cracked ceiling.'
He had grown used to comfort in this world. Maybe too used to it. Wide rooms, clean sheets, good food. The motel was practical, yes—but it wasn't where information flowed. It wasn't where people talked when they had something to lose.
Trafalgar lifted his gaze.
