I am unwilling
Sam never thought of hotels as good places.
He simply felt that such places exuded a sense of pretense, even less peaceful and harmonious than a rental room.
Restlessness, ostentation, haste.
That was Sam's impression of hotels.
Angel, who was behind him, probably didn't like these places either, but why did she insist on bringing Sam here?
Now, the answer was clear.
The box that Sam was carrying wasn't particularly heavy, but at this moment, it felt infinitely burdensome in his heart—not because it was important, but because it was exceedingly dangerous.
The door behind him closed.
Angel, who had shut the door, wasn't in any rush.
She simply sat down on a nearby chair, which resembled more of a lazy-boy, likely very soft, even someone of her slight weight seemed to sink deeply into it.
And there stood Sam in the middle, like an item under scrutiny, or perhaps... a criminal awaiting judgment.