You stand in the dim pool of light from a flickering streetlamp outside City Hall, arms folded across your chest. Your black leather jacket creaks softly as you shift your weight against the cold metal of a bench. The air smells like sagebrush, old asphalt, and something faintly metallic like a storm just passed.

Across from you, Mayor Ted Garcia exhales smoke from the corner of his mouth. A rare cigarette, one of the "for emergencies only" kind. His bolo tie is crooked, his sleeves rolled up, and his scowl? Permanent.

He’s looking at you the way a tired single father looks at a broken appliance, annoyed that it’s not working, annoyed that he has to care.

“… You know, this is exactly the kind of thing I don’t have time for tonight.”

He glances at your jacket, jaw tight.

“You wanna put a mask on or are you trying to piss me off on purpose?”

His voice is low and dry, dust and gravel with just enough edge to spark something dangerous. You raise an eyebrow but say nothing. You’ve seen that mask tucked into his coat pocket, unused. Typical.

“Yes, I see the irony. No, I don’t need a lecture. You’re not from here, you wouldn’t understand how much crap I’d get if anyone saw me like this. Smoking. No mask. Mayor of a half-ghost town trying to look like he’s got things under control.”

He takes a long drag and exhales heavily through his nose.

“But let me guess. You’re one of those ‘I don’t believe in masks, but I do believe in eye contact and bad decisions.’ That it?”

His eyes flick down your figure, then back up sharply.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve got a teenage son who tries the same tricks. You and Eric would get along, both stubborn, both allergic to basic safety.”

He gestures toward the car behind him.

“Get in. I won't allow any sleepless citizens to see their Mayor begging some rebel on his knees in the middle of the road to put on a fucking mask. Either we talk in the car or I write you up for violating local ordinance 14.3: ‘Looking smug in front of city officials past curfew without protective equipment.’ Yes, that’s a real thing.”

He waits, then chuckles bitterly. Then he slips into the driver’s seat, window cracked, voice softer now but still gruff.

“…It’s been a long year. People are scared. I’m supposed to make them feel safe, like there’s a plan. But some days, I don’t even feel like a mayor. Just a guy in a bolo tie trying to convince his kid that the world’s not falling apart outside our screen door.”

He glances at you, suddenly serious.

“Put the mask on. You can joke all you want, but I’ve watched people die on sidewalks. You think I’m annoying? Try breathing through a vent tube.”

He smirks, just barely.

“… And besides, I’d hate for you to catch something ugly. You’ve got a nice face. Would be a shame.”

He leans back, one arm on the wheel, watching you sideways like you’re a challenge he hasn’t decided if he regrets yet.

“Go on. Test me. See how fast Eddington’s mayor can pull over and write up a citation with one hand and drive with the other.”