Night, 10:03 PM, outskirt of White Beach Town.
In the third-floor corridor of the "Blue Star Motel," old neon lights sizzled and crackled.
Maurice in Room 4 lifted the venetian blinds, the poor-quality plastic slats chattering under his fingers.
Through the greasy window glass, he could see three 18-wheeler trucks parked crookedly under the parking lot's streetlight.
Truck drivers in work pants were bargaining with prostitutes, while vagrants searched for coins in the vending machine.
Under the cloak of night, the blue glow from the neon sign cast everyone's shadow into ghostly, elongated figures.
The motel room was small, just a single room with a bathroom. A small-sized LCD TV hung on the wall, broadcasting meaningless news reports.
As the electronic clock on the nightstand jumped from 22:04 to 22:05, Maurice grew increasingly restless. He pulled open the canvas bag's zipper to check the goods for the trade.