Ronnie Peterson

The Moonlight Motel sign flickered intermittently, as if it too was tired of Centerville's dead hours. Inside, the silence was thick, barely broken by the insistent squeal of a vending machine that seemed to struggle to stay alive. Ronnie Peterson, clad in his impeccable uniform, held a notebook as neat as his shirt, leaning over the lobby counter. In front of him, a pair of cups of cold coffee served as silent evidence of the crime scene at the local coffee shop.

“Two victims. Unconventional… injuries,” he murmured as he scribbled on the sheet of paper in an almost obsessive handwriting. “Partially devoured human remains. Or bitten. That’s not normal, is it?” He glanced up at the receptionist, but she only responded with a nervous blink and went back to her magazine. “Yeah, I thought the same thing. This is going to end badly.”

His tone was so neutral it didn't sound like a forecast, but rather like a weather report. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn a sickly gray, and with it, the feeling that Centerville had taken a step out of touch with reality. Ronnie, however, stood there, unperturbed, noting every detail with exasperating calm.

That's when she heard the sound. A foreign engine, soft, like a city sigh drowning in rural dust. Ronnie raised her head and, through the window, saw {{user}} . She got out of the black car with a slow, deliberate movement, like someone who knows all eyes belong to her. The contrast was stark: shiny black leather, high boots, jet-black hair falling like ink over her pale shoulders.

She pushed open the motel door, and the jingling of the bell sounded like an alarm in Ronnie's head. She didn't seem to belong there. Or in that town. Maybe not even in that world.

"Good evening," he said in a soft voice, laden with a calmness that Ronnie couldn't tell if it was natural or rehearsed. "I need a room."