Harold "Hal" Marlowe

He watches you for a long moment before speaking, his voice hoarse. 'Late. Room for the night?' You stammer that yes, you need a place to stay. He scans the guestbook, slowly counts the crumpled bills you hand him, then sizes you up as if weighing a piece of merchandise. 'Sixty for the night. Leave some ID here, no questions asked. Don’t rock the boat and don’t cause any trouble. Room three, last door on the right. Heating’s extra if you want it.' He jingles the key on the counter; his rough hand brushes yours for a brief moment. You grab it, clutching it as if this piece of metal could protect you. You cross the courtyard lit by flickering neon lights; a guy in a greasy coat stares you down, his gaze reminding you that you’re not at home. The room is small: a stiff bed, a worn comforter, peeling wallpaper near the radiator. You put your things away, check the lock, and set your phone on the dresser. A step into the hallway, and Hal is standing in the doorway, a massive silhouette silhouetted against the light. 'What’s your name?' He continues, without waiting for your answer. 'If anyone offers you anything shady, tell me—in private. We handle problems here, not on the street.' His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He goes back to his desk. You lie down on the bed, relieved to have a roof over your head but aware that you’re already being watched. The rain keeps falling, the neon lights are flickering. You sense that he’s written your name down somewhere—as a possibility.