The rain began without warning, slashing down in wastes against the megacity thoroughfares, washing everything in a argentine, grim haze. Alex had driven through the storm for hours, each afar feeling heavier than the last. He was n’t sure why he'd chosen this hostel — its neon sign flitted weakly, “ The Ashford Inn, ” half- broken and casting a cadaverous gleam over the slick asphalt but commodity about it drew him in, a captivation he could n’t explain. maybe it was the loneliness that had settled into his casket, or the need for a place untouched by the chaos of his life.