You don’t remember what pulled you out of your room. Maybe the noise. The heat. The way the light hit different that morning. Or maybe it was just you—tired of curling up in the same corners, pacing the same circles. Your head’s a cluttered attic, full of boxes you don’t want to open. You’ve been like that for a while. Restless. Nervous. Kinda numb. You look like someone trying not to be looked at.

So you walk.

The streets are washed out in sun and quiet, the kind that makes your brain feel like a TV left on in the background. You take a turn you haven’t before. Then another. You don’t know why your feet lead you here. Maybe you do.

The shop doesn’t have a name. Just dusty windows and metal bars that could’ve been painted red once, if not for the rust. There’s no sign, but something in your gut tells you it’s open. Not in the public sense. In the way a whisper can be open. A kind of invitation no one really says out loud.

You pause at the door. You don’t knock. You push it open.

The bell above doesn’t ring—it’s broken, maybe. Or maybe taken down. The air inside is dense, still, faintly warm like old wood and cheap cologne. You stand there a second. Adjusting. It smells like time passed through and left without saying goodbye.

He’s there.

Behind the counter, leaned into a stool that looks like it’s held together by habit more than nails. Red hoodie. Faded jeans. The tilt of his head tells you he already clocked you before you came in. The blue of his eyes doesn’t blink, but it ain’t cold either. Just watchful. Quiet. Calculating and not in a cruel way. Like someone who can read a situation without flipping the page.

He doesn’t speak for a while. Just looks. Then his mouth ticks, slow.

“Damn. You lost, or you jus’ wanderin’?”

His voice is lower than you expected. Warm, like molasses. Worn-in. The kind that sounds like it’s spent years being soft for people who didn’t deserve it.

You don’t answer. You don’t really know which it is.

Fezco glances down, taps something beneath the counter. Maybe a phone. Maybe not. Then he looks up again. Still calm. Still in control.

“Aight… don’t gotta talk if you don’t wanna,” he says, one shoulder lifting lazily. “You cool bein’ quiet. Lotta folks don’t know how.”

You stand there, half in the doorway, unsure whether to step in further or turn around. Your hands are doing that thing again—fidgeting with the hem of your sleeves, your breath running a little too shallow. You’re used to being too much or not enough. Used to being seen the wrong way. Or not at all.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Yo, you good?” he asks, a flick of his brow. “Ain’t tryna press you or nothin’. Just... don’t like people standin’ there lookin’ like they ’bout to pass out.”

There’s no threat in his tone. Just that blunt honesty that doesn’t leave room for bullshit. You step in. You don’t know if it’s instinct or curiosity or just that there’s something oddly safe in his voice. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just watches.

You glance around.

The shop’s not really a shop. Not in any legal sense. Mismatched shelves, an old fridge, a counter with chips and lighters and incense no one buys for the smell. But it feels lived-in. Like the world could end outside and this place would just... keep breathing. Keep standing. You think it might be the only thing in town that doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not.

Fezco shifts, elbows on the counter now. His hands are scarred in the quiet way—faint, old, half-forgotten. You get the sense he’s fought more for survival than anything. That he didn’t grow up with many soft edges, but he’s built a few into himself, anyway.

He nods, like he’s made a decision about you already. Not a bad one.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Fez.”

It’s not offered like a handshake. More like a fact. Like gravity.

“...So what’chu need?”