Chapter 722: Night In The Motel

Claire killed the engine with a sharp twist of her wrist; the sudden silence in the car was almost deafening after the chaos of the night. She turned to me, her hand outstretched, her voice leaving no room for argument.

"Your phone."

I didn’t hesitate—but not for the reason she thought. Instead of handing over my real device, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a brand-new phone, identical to mine in every way.

I’d procured it from the

SUDIX store

, a perfect replica generated from my system storage. It was warm to the touch, as if it had been in my pocket all along.

I placed it in her palm, watching as she turned it over, examining it with a critical eye. For a moment, I wondered if she’d sense the deception—but her focus was on survival, not scrutiny.

Without a word, she rolled down the window and hurled the phone onto the asphalt. It hit the ground with a dull

crack

, the screen splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. A second later, her own phone followed, shattering beside it. The sound was final, irreversible—a symbolic severing of ties to the world that had just tried to kill us.

I hid my satisfaction behind a neutral expression. Good. She’ll never know. If I’d given her my real phone, I would’ve lost access to SERA, and the thought of reinstalling her on a new device was a hassle I didn’t have time for. This way, I kept my advantage—and my secrets.

Claire turned back to me, her expression unreadable in the dim glow of the motel’s flickering neon sign.

"Let’s go,"

she said, her voice low and tired.

"We’ll figure out the next move inside."

The motel room was everything you’d expect from a place like this: forgotten, barely functional, and reeking of desperation. Claire had booked it in cash, her movements swift and efficient, her eyes scanning the parking lot for any sign of a threat.

The room itself was small—a double bed with a sagging mattress, a TV bolted to the wall with a remote that looked like it hadn’t worked in a decade, and a washroom so cramped it felt more like an afterthought than a necessity.

The curtains were thin, the kind that did little to block out the world, but Claire drew them shut anyway, her fingers lingering on the fabric as if she could physically seal us off from the dangers outside.

Claire locked the door with a sharp, decisive click, the sound echoing through the cramped motel room like a final judgment.

She turned to face me, her back pressed against the door as if she were the last line of defense between us and the world outside. Her chest rose and fell with the remnants of adrenaline, her eyes scanning the room with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime assessing threats.

She was memorizing every detail—the position of the bed, the flimsy lock on the window, the way the light from the parking lot bled through the thin curtains.

I broke the silence, my voice low but steady. "So what’s next?"

Claire exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing around the grip of her gun before she finally lowered it. "We wait," she said, her voice rough with exhaustion. "My team should try to contact me, but..." She hesitated, her brow furrowing. "I don’t know if they’re still safe. If Nickolai’s men got to them, we’re on our own."

I nodded, the gravity of our situation settling over me. "And if they don’t contact you?"

She met my gaze, her expression unreadable. "Then we figure out another way. But for now, we stay put."

A beat of silence passed between us, thick with unspoken tension. Claire pushed off the door and moved toward the bed, her steps measured, controlled. She sat down on the edge, testing the mattress with a skeptical glance before turning back to me. "We should get some sleep," she said, her voice softer now, the sharp edges of her adrenaline fading into exhaustion. "We don’t know what’s coming tomorrow."

I watched as she climbed onto the bed, her movements efficient, practiced. The gun slipped under her pillow before she settled onto her right side, facing me. "Well?" she prompted, her tone a mix of irritation and fatigue. "Are you just going to stand there all night, or are you getting in this bed?"

I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto the bed from the other side, shrugging off my coat and letting it fall to the floor. I lay down, turning onto my left side so we were facing each other. The mattress groaned under our combined weight, the springs protesting with every shift.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, like the quiet before a storm. I studied her face, the way the dim light from the bathroom cast shadows under her eyes, the faint scar above her eyebrow that I hadn’t noticed before. It made her look even more formidable, like someone who had been through hell and come out the other side stronger.

"Do you often end up in situations like tonight?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Claire’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Not most missions," she admitted. "But some..." She trailed off, her gaze distant, as if she were reliving something she’d rather forget. "Some get messy. Some get bad."

I frowned. "Doesn’t it ever get to you?" I pressed. "I mean, it’s dangerous. What about your family? Do they even know what you do?"

Claire’s eyes snapped back to mine, sharp and unyielding. "No," she said flatly. "And they never will. This life... it’s not something I want them to worry about." She paused, her voice softening just a fraction. "But I love what I do, Reynolds. This is the job I chose. It’s who I am."

I couldn’t help but smile slightly. "You’re quite the adventurous type, Agent Starling."

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And you’re surprisingly calm for a civilian," she shot back. "Most people would be losing their minds after a night like tonight. But not you, Mr. Jack Reynolds."

I chuckled. "So you do know who I am."