It was cold, the water that ran over his skin, but he did not shake or shiver; his body was used to the cold.
He was in a small, old bathroom, with a rusted shower placed so close to the faded toilet that Mr. Valen could only applaud the space management of the architect.
The soap he used smelled stale, expired if that was even possible, but that was nothing compared to the almost overpowering scent of bleach that invaded his nostrils.
"Your clothes are in the washer," a female voice called out, forcing Mr. Valen to look toward the door where the hooker stood, counting the money she'd found in his pocket, all 500 Val.
"This'll do," she giggled slightly, peering at him as though waiting for resistance as to why her price was so high, but Mr. Valen barely acknowledged her.
He had stolen the money from the search party after all, specifically the man whom Carla killed.
«Kill her!»
That nagging voice of the shadowy humanoid rang out in his head, but Mr. Valen endured.
