Heat surrounded Rocco Anderson, allowing him no room to breathe.
Perhaps it was the flames that would soon reach to scrape his chest, death nearing him every extra millisecond he wasted. He fiddled with everything he could see, searching the desk, drawers, table, under the mattress—every room and object near him.
There was a reason why they set it to flames. A reason why they wanted to hide whatever happened behind closed doors. He would find out that reason, but to find out, he'd need to be alive and able to prove it. He had to prove that he wasn't a failure or a liar. Prove that he really, truly had something.
He ran, reaching for the window. The fall wasn't too great; he was only three stories tall (without counting the hotel lobby). When it wouldn't budge, he smashed the window with his gun, shards falling all around the plainly decorated bedroom.
He wondered if he should jump, escape. Return with no evidence.
But he couldn't.
He stepped back, turning his head. The flames covered the door. If it wasn't here, it will never be anywhere, and he would be back to having nothing nowhere.
He reached for the desk again, tripping over his own feet. The bed was fairly low, nothing could possibly be hidden there…
Yet his eyes met the side of an envelope.
He reached for it, stuffing it into his pocket.
He crawled towards the window like a deer running towards a car. Quickly, he got onto his knees, pulling himself up. With one last glance, he felt the skin on his arm burn.
He took the leap forward.