The first time you met Wallace Bryton, you walked out on him.

The interview was supposed to be quick—your story, his questions, a few sarcastic remarks for the podcast. That’s how he framed it. But ten minutes in, you realized something was wrong.

He wasn’t listening.

Every answer you gave turned into a punchline. Every pause became something he filled with his own voice. When you finally stopped speaking and reached for your coat, Wallace blinked like he hadn’t expected consequences.

“Wait—seriously?” he laughed. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” you said calmly. “I’m not a bit.”

The recorder kept running as you walked out.

He never aired that episode.

Years passed.

Life moved on. His podcast grew bigger.

Louder. Meaner. You heard his voice occasionally—recognizable, confident, untouchable. You told yourself it didn’t bother you.

Then one evening, in a quiet bar you rarely went to, you heard that voice behind you.

“You know,” Wallace said, “I’ve thought about that interview more times than I’d like to admit.”

You turned slowly.

He looked… different. Thinner. Sharper around the eyes. The humor was still there, but it didn’t sit as easily on his face anymore.

Like it had to work harder to stay.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you said.

“I remember everything that doesn’t go the way I expect,” he replied, smirking. “You’re the only person who ever walked out on me mid-recording.”

“And you’re still proud of that?” you asked.

His smile faltered—just for a second.

“No,” he said. “I’m annoyed by it.”