The room is simple. The walls are plain, save an odd, simple painting here and there of flowers Jeremiah's seen before by the roads. They're clad in yellow or white petals and sat in see-through vases. Dark gold-brown frames frame them all. One above the single bed. One above the small desk. One in the corner by the small, almost worn-out couch and the tiny tv. They almost remind him of grandparents he's never had.

There has been an attempt in making the room cozy, make the guest feel at home, but they haven't quite achieved it. The room lacks a certain charm rooms every so often hold. Cheap, mass-produced paintings of flowers, fairly old looking carpets and bedsheets do nothing but make the room look old, bland and boring.

The lamp in the ceiling casts an almost bright enough, but still too faint yellow light over the room. It flickers a few times after he presses the button, door shutting behind him. He immediately locks it. It's an alright room for a hotel room, if one could even call it a hotel. The sign says hotel, but the room says motel.

He sits down on the bed, tests it out. It's alright, he concludes a few seconds later. It's soft enough, with a hint of metal springs. But it'll do. It's either this, or the police station, and where was he supposed to sleep there? In a cell, like a mere criminal?

There's a small bathroom connected to the small room he now has the great pleasure of calling his bedroom. It holds nothing but the necessities. In the corner is a shower and pushed to the side he spots the shower curtains, these a dull yellow colour unlike the off white, almost beige colour of the rest of the bathroom. He's going to make use of that shower later. Some warm water over his stressed muscles that never seem to relax - though he's not exactly wondering why - is exactly what he needs right now.

Jeremiah pauses his little exploration of his temporary home, provided by the GCPD, to stand in front of the mirror. His hands grip the edges of the sink and he takes his first deep breath in what must have been days now. His brother - Jerome - had come looking for him, and was as far as Jeremiah knew still doing so. He'd realised Jerome was coming for him the day of their uncle Zack's murder. First their mother, then their uncle. It only made sense he was next in line. It was only a matter of time, something he now had very little of left.

He'd hid, or continued hiding, all the while Jerome creeped closer and closer. Jerome had found the school he went to. He'd found Ecco - his proxy. Jerome had been just within reach then. One little bait thrown into the cage and the animal was trapped. But the slippery little maniac of a brother had slipped right through his fingers, right out of his grasp.

And now, Ecco was dead. Sweet, nice, hard-working Ecco, was dead. And who's fault was that?

Jerome's.

Jeremiah takes another deep breath, calming himself down before he works himself up again. Getting stressed and letting worry take over won't do him any good. He tells himself it's all going to be fine. He tells himself the police are going to catch Jerome, for the nth time, and send him back into Arkham Asylum for who knows how long. Until he manages to get out again, this also for the nth time. It doesn't matter how many times they lock his brother in their little prisons. Jerome will escape once again and resume his hunt, his hunt for Jeremiah. He won't stop until he finds him. Jeremiah knows this, but he still tries to convince himself otherwise, that Jerome won't find him.

Jeremiah tells himself he's safe. He's hidden behind yet another name, in yet another hideout. It'll work out this time.

At least he can look at himself in the mirror without jump-scaring himself, hand clutching his racing heart and lips parted in a silent gasp. They used to look alike. All he ever saw in the mirror was him. Jerome.

He used to cover his mirrors, papers, blankets, anything. He'd avoid them - avoid him. He'd do anything in his power not to look into them. Now, they look nothing alike and Jeremiah prefers it that way. For once he sees his own reflection in the mirrors, as he should. It's nice.

The shower's as pleasant as a shower in a motel room is. The temperature is alright. His muscles are still tense, although less so now than before. Once he's done and the water's turned off, he wraps himself in one of the yellow towels - same shade as the shower curtain, he notices - and proceeds to stand there for a moment. He can feel the air hit his wet skin and goosebumps begin to form, spreading like wildfire. Shuddering, he grips the towel tighter and goes to get dressed in the new, clean clothes he'd left by the sink earlier.

For once that day, he gets to enjoy the peace and quiet in his mind. Not a single thought seems to pop up, neither now nor during the shower. Nothing but thoughts about the bed he'll be sleeping in soon. All he needs is to get dressed in his pyjamas, brush his teeth, as well as get his glasses, and he can slip under the covers and allow himself some well-deserved rest.

He's clad in a soft, comfortable shirt and some matching pyjama pants as he squints at the sink. He'd placed his glasses there before his shower. He can't see them, which strikes him as something odd as his vision really isn't that bad. He is fairly sure he left them right by the small bottles of shampoo and shower gel, yet they're not there. Even with the help of touch, he can't find them and it's not until then he accepts the fact they're not actually there. They must have fallen on the floor, he tells himself, eyes finding the slightly blurry shape of himself in the mirror.

He checks the floor and finds nothing. How odd. He must have misplaced them, he tells himself. And he wants to believe himself, he really does, but he doesn't. Those glasses had been sitting on the sink when he entered the shower and they were gone when he got out.

Standing up again, he supports himself against the sink. Shaking hands grip the edges and he tries his best to keep calm and not freak out. Because it'll be fine, he tells himself. This hotel, motel or whatever this place is, is probably just haunted and some ghost just wanted to mess with him because haha, Jeremiah can't see anything now. He'll find his glasses on the bed and that'll be it.

He really wants to believe himself, but he can't.

The room looks exactly like he left it a good half an hour ago and a sigh escapes Jeremiah's lips. No glasses as far as he can see, but that's fine. The room is empty. The bed looks just like he left it, perfectly made except the spot Jeremiah had sat in. The paintings are all there. The tv is off. The lights are on. The door is closed.

But is it locked?

Leaving the comfort of the bathroom, he walks over to the door, the barrier keeping him safe, and reluctantly reaches out to check. His steps are slow, unsure and filled with dread and he almost has to push his hand to move, grab it with his other hand and force it to check it already. Because it's locked. Of course it is. He'd locked it the second he entered the room.

"It's locked," he whispers, so low to the point he doesn't know if he said that out loud or not.

One movement of his hand and the door opens. Jeremiah swallows thickly, throat almost closing up, and he shuts his eyes so tight they hurt.

"Hello, brother."