[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Best 8 Motel[/h3][/color]
Stepping in from the downpour outside that had gripped the city, the soaking man shook out his coat whilst closing the door behind him. The fabric, drenched as it were, at least kept him dry for the most part and had done its task of obscuring him on the streets; Song wished to go where he desired unaccosted and subtlety was a great factor in that. The familiarity of his orderly, neatly kept, albeit humble room pleased him, even as he latched the bolt upon the handle, the deadbolt, and the chain across the door. There was no denying this side of town was dangerous, even the motel had such basic, rudimentary security upon their door, but the man was pleased all the same.

Removing the handgun from under the second sweatshirt, did he examine it for a moment in the faint light. Depressing the magazine release, the small metal rectangle fell into his palm and he laid it to the bed; fourteen out of fifteen for the moment. With a flick of his thumb, cocking the weapon slightly to a side, he racked the slide to the rear and sent the round withing the chamber spinning wild through the air and with all the grace of a magician performing sleight of hand, he caught it without second thought. The metal frame of the pistol, from its grip on, felt so foreign, so dead to him; there was little life or art to this thing. It had its uses, it was a tool, but it was impersonal, indifferent... mechanical.

The magazine was reloaded and Song soon joined the weapon among a black bag from under the bed among others; various handguns, a few modified shotguns, a set of cutdown rifles. The "Golden Tiger" had freed them from the hands of bad men, at least objectively [i]worse[/i] men than him at least, and kept them here. At times he thought to begin pawning them off but what suspicion would arise? It was better to just keep them in disuse here, safer at that. There might have not been a use to the martial artist in them regularly, but who would make a better steward? Few, at least here.

Soon, like the rest of his attire, Song attended to everything from the small collection of throwing knives he kept to the money he had plucked; looking over it neither approvingly or with any sense of disappointment. It simply disappeared into his meager safe and the rest, what little he kept on his person, into a pocket. It was not long that he delayed or dallied, reequipping himself in preparation to travel further north and procure his few luxuries; it started with the duffel bag and ended with it, the zipper sliding shut as his hands pat the bulky, metal filled bag down. Returning it to its place, he nodded.

It was time to leave, albeit this time a long coat would join him to slick the rain.