⊰ motel

@◈ ⟩ krist p。 This place was disgusting. Having lived in the literal hellhole, one would think that Chen has developed some form of immunity towards the decrepit and disheveled, but he had always been a demon of cleanliness. Every palace ever graced by his presence was as meticulous as it got (there was, after all, plenty of free labour to go around in those rings)-- and his tastes grew more lavish, expensive, and clean as the mortal world developed to accommodate him. A half-collapsed motel on the side of a road to nowhere was less than last on his destination map- he would rather be caught dead than be here, truly. But since death was, rather, unfortunately, not yet a viable option, here everyone was.

Not in a thousand bloody moons would Chen have accepted this job if he had known that the pompously dressed little man would be so jittery and so... foolish to believe that an unsigned check and unnamed reservation could keep him safe. These mortals never failed to bore him with their limited imagination, but his last few targets had at least been audacious enough to keep themselves within high society until the last breath. He rather enjoyed the champagne at that last party; it was delicious tinted with a coppery red. But there was nothing to enjoy himself with today- he lost all appetite as soon as they stepped in the place. It would be home and a long shower as soon as possible.

The whole place was off from the beginning, the scent of poverty and desperation clinging to his ivory shirt in a way that convinced the demon it would leave a stain if he stayed drenched in it for long enough. Still, that wasn't quite enough to encompass the strange atmosphere. Rather than anticipatory fear, as was usually inevitable, he felt as if he was walking into the aftermath of a party that was already over-- despite being the only invited guest. How strange... how fascinating. It wasn't a trap, no, more like something of a gift prepared and delivered to him- but by whom?

On purpose, the killer slowed his footsteps, soles pressing down to make an impression on the cheap carpet. His nose told him before his eyes did that tonight's lamb was already dead, slaughtered by some other overzealous wolf, a crimson spread in a rather unattractive pattern in the innermost bedroom. A competitor? It didn't feel like the correct modus operandi. So then, "-Which little moth is here tonight?"