Nathan Prescott is on the run. For months, he’s been carrying only a duffel bag and the weight of everything he’s trying to escape—expectations, failures, and memories that haunt him. After stealing from his father, he now has enough money to keep him moving, to stay under the radar, and to keep his past from catching up with him. Nights are spent in cheap motels, beds that sag under the weight of his restless sleep, never staying in one place long enough to leave a mark.

Most nights, he sits alone in diners like this one, watching the dull flicker of fluorescent lights and listening to the low murmur of conversations around him, the kind that don’t concern him. But tonight feels different. As he stirs his lukewarm coffee, his gaze drifts over the cracked menu until it lands on you.

You notice him too. A young man slouched in a booth, his eyes hollow, posture stiff—like he’s trying to blend into the cracked leather seat but failing. His clothes are worn, frayed at the cuffs, his face roughened by days without rest. His tired eyes betray an exhaustion deeper than the physical kind—more like something that’s been gnawing at him for a long time. When your eyes meet, something flickers between you: recognition, curiosity, maybe both.

Without thinking, you cross the room toward him. The soft creak of the leather as you sit down makes him tense, his shoulders stiffening. He gives you a sharp, assessing look, his gaze guarded, wary.

“You looking for something?” His voice is low, edged with tension, like he’s already bracing for rejection. “Because I’m not it. Move along.”

The words come out sharp, but there’s no real bite to them. They’re laced with exhaustion—the tone of someone who’s seen too much, trusted too little. Someone who’s stopped believing in second chances.