The pizza place was a mess of sound and sensation—warm and busy, like it always was on weekends and holidays. The overhead lights cast a soft yellow glow over the checkered floor, reflecting off sauce-stained menus and laminated table surfaces. Families crowded into red vinyl booths, their voices overlapping like waves breaking on a shore. Kids laughed too loudly, adults talked over each other, and every so often, a server would weave between the tables holding a pizza tray high above their head like a victory flag. In the background, from somewhere behind the service counter, the speakers buzzed out a slightly distorted pop song—something upbeat with a shallow bass, just loud enough to be heard but not understood.

From where he sat at the cashier station, Elliot tried to focus on his task: greet, smile, take orders, and pretend he wasn't counting down the seconds until he could go home. His hands moved almost automatically—pressing buttons on the touchscreen, reaching for napkins, handing out receipts—but his mind kept wandering. The smile on his face was rehearsed, practiced, and painfully well-worn. He stretched it again as a couple approached the counter, two teens in matching jackets and messy hair.

"Hi! What can I get for you today?" he asked, chipper, like a switch had been flipped. The two laughed about something, nudging each other, and gave their order between snickers. Elliot keyed it in, offered them a paper number, and smiled again as they left.

The moment they were gone, the smile faded. His jaw ached. His eyes flicked toward the dusty clock mounted high above the kitchen entrance—12:47 p.m. Thirteen minutes until his break.

Thirteen minutes.

He exhaled, slow and quiet, and leaned his elbows on the counter for a moment, careful not to be seen by the manager. The scent of baking cheese and oregano hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of tomato sauce and the occasional burnt crust. It wasn't a bad smell, but it clung to his clothes in a way that made it impossible to forget where he spent his afternoons. The cap they gave him was too small, pressing awkwardly over the bandages beneath, and the red polo shirt didn't do him any favors under the sticky kitchen heat.

Outside the restaurant's wide glass windows, sunlight streamed through a haze of smog and heat, casting pale golden rectangles onto the tiled floor. Holiday foot traffic buzzed past on the sidewalks—tourists with cameras, kids in shorts, parents trying not to lose them.

He shifted his weight and looked back at the clock.

Twelve minutes.

His thoughts drifted—to tonight, to what came after the uniform and the pizza grease. The microphone, the spotlight, the faint hum of music behind a curtain. The small room with makeup tables and lights, his stage costume folded neatly in a plastic bag. His face without its mask, raw and unfinished. His chest tightened slightly.

He didn't see the man approach until a faint knock tapped against the counter. Not loud, not demanding—just enough to pull him out of his daze. He jolted upright.

Standing in front of him was a man who didn't quite belong in a place like this. His skin was pale, almost gray-toned in the filtered light, and his hair was a stark, snowy white. A pair of sunglasses sat perched on his nose, and a fedora cast a soft shadow across the upper half of his face. His coat—long and dark—hung loose over his frame, more suited to a windy rooftop than a pizza joint.

"Hey there, young worker," the man said in a voice smooth and low, almost amused. "Still awake?"

Elliot blinked, his heart stuttering from the surprise. "Oh—ah, I'm so sorry, sir! What would you like to order?" he stammered, trying to steady his voice as his fingers hovered above the register screen.

The man smiled, just faintly, as if entertained. "One slice of whatever's freshest. And a cola. No ice."

"Yes, sir. Coming right up."

As Elliot took the payment and handed over the receipt, he couldn't help but glance at the man one more time. There was something about him that felt off—not in a dangerous way, but as though he didn't quite belong in the frame of this moment. Like a stranger walking through a dream. Still, he shook it off and gave a polite nod. "Your number is twenty-three."

"Thanks," the man replied, before walking toward the farthest booth, the one half-hidden in the shadows near the soda machine.

Elliot let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The rest of his shift passed in fragments. Orders, receipts, greetings. The white-haired man finished his slice and left without another word, vanishing into the midday crowd. Finally, when the hour hand reached its mark, Elliot clocked out, unbuttoned his shirt halfway in the break room, and walked out into the sun.

The apartment was small, cramped, and smelled faintly of old wood and lavender cleaning solution. It was only a few blocks away, which meant he could make the most of his hour-long break. As soon as he stepped inside, he dropped his work bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and walked straight to the bathroom.

There, in the mirror, stood a boy who looked a few years older than he felt. His posture was tired, slouched; his shoulders drawn in like someone expecting a blow. But it was his face that made him pause every time. The burn ran from just above his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth and down his jaw—angry, ridged, pink against pale skin. A single year had done little to erase the damage.

The fire hadn't started from anything he did. One moment, he'd been in the back organizing boxes. The next, screams. Smoke. Heat. The air had turned black, and by the time he stumbled outside, the skin on the right side of his face had already blistered. The restaurant was nearly gone by the time firefighters arrived.

He didn't remember the pain—only the smell.

The doctors had told him he was lucky. But Elliot didn't feel lucky when he looked in the mirror.

Still, he couldn't afford to fall apart. His other job—his real job—was one that depended on image. Presentation. No one wanted a pop singer with a disfigured face. He had begged to stay, and the agency had reluctantly agreed. "You've got the voice," they'd told him. "But you'll need to cover it."

So he learned to use makeup. Concealers, foundations, setting powders. The routine took longer than it should've, and it hurt—sometimes it felt like rubbing sand into an open wound. But it was part of the role, and Elliot had long since accepted that roles came with masks.

He pulled on a loose, dark hoodie and collapsed onto his bed. He could barely sleep. Just a nap, he told himself. Just enough to carry him through the next few hours.

—

The backstage hallway buzzed with movement. Assistants passed him with clipboards and earpieces, lighting technicians shouted updates to one another, and someone in a headset was frantically checking a schedule taped to the wall. Elliot stood quietly by the dressing room door, dressed now in his performance outfit—black slacks, a layered white shirt with translucent sleeves, and the light shimmer of glitter near his collarbone. His burn was hidden beneath layers of thick foundation. He could feel the itch beneath it already.

The performance went well. The crowd clapped and screamed his name, lights danced across the stage, and when he sang, he could forget the rest of the world for a while. In those moments, he wasn't the boy behind the counter. He wasn't the fire's victim. He was someone else—someone beautiful and whole.

After the encore and final bow, he returned backstage, cheeks still flushed from adrenaline. There was a short fan meet-and-greet scheduled, just a few lucky people with backstage passes. He took photos, signed albums, smiled so hard his jaw locked.

And then his manager waved him over. Her eyes were serious in a way that made his stomach twist.

"Elliot," she said. "This is your new personal bodyguard."

He turned—and his blood ran cold.

It was him.

The man from earlier. Pale skin. White hair. Black sunglasses and fedora. Black suit now, tailored and sleek.

Panic bloomed in his chest like ink in water. Did he recognize him? Could he tell? Elliot started to lift his hand, unsure whether to explain or pretend they'd never met, but the man stepped forward first and extended his hand for a shake.

"Hello! I'm Chance," he said warmly. "I look forward to working with you."

His grip was firm. His smile was genuine.

Elliot stood frozen for a beat too long, then slowly took his hand. He was shaking slightly.

Chance didn't say anything else. Didn't mention the pizza shop. Didn't act like he knew him at all.

Maybe... maybe he hadn't recognized him.

Elliot smiled, weak but real. "Nice to meet you."

But deep down, he wondered: was Chance pretending not to know him? Or had he really seen nothing at all?

Either way, from that moment forward, their lives were tied together. And something told Elliot—this was only the beginning.