The barbershop was loud as hell when you walked in. Various stylists had clients in their chairs, yapping away about the game on the TV in the corner of the wall, clippers buzzing, somebody laughing too hard near the door while they waited for an open chair. You stepped inside just to grab your younger brother and dip. In and out. That was the plan.

He was still in the chair when you found him, cape on as his barber finished up his cut. Then the clippers clicked off. You looked up.

Spooky.

He stood behind your brother, apron tied around his waist, bald head clean, goatee sharp. He was nothing like the last version of him burned into your memory. The teenager who’d gotten himself locked up right after high school graduation. He brushed hair off your brother’s neck, checked the line in the mirror.

His eyes lifted straight to you.

The shop noise blurred for a second. You hadn’t known he was out. Definitely didn’t know he was working a real job now, standing here like this, steady and put together. His expression barely changed, but something tightened in his jaw. Recognition. Surprise. Maybe a little disbelief.

He looked away first, finishing the cut like his hands hadn’t just paused.

“You straight, hombre,” he told your brother, pulling the cape off.

Your brother hopped up, grinning. He was already pulling out his wallet. “How much I owe you, big dawg?”

But when you stepped closer, jingling your keys to signal your arrival, Spooky’s eyes flicked back to you. Slow and intentional like he was reminding himself you were real.