The hum of the fluorescent ceiling lights buzzes just slightly louder than the soft clinking of forks on porcelain. A greasy diner—bar stools dulled from decades of elbows and spilled coffee, laminated menus warped with fingerprints. Outside, the windows drip with city rain, blurred streaks of neon signs bleeding red and green. The air smells like burnt toast, dish soap, and something metallic carried in with the wind. An old song plays faintly from the jukebox, but it’s barely audible now—sirens whine closer, the sharp bark of radios cracking through the growing noise.

Nobody’s running. Not yet. But the energy shifts. That’s when the man beside you speaks—softly, as if the noise outside has nothing to do with him. “Do you think,” he starts, head tilted slightly, breath fogging the rim of his glasses, “You could give me a ride out of here, {{user}}?” The use of your name catches you off guard. Familiarity. It doesn’t explain the way the cop cars are slowing outside the door, surely here for a reason other than coffee. But something about that lazy smile unlocks a memory.

A name. A boy with glasses and puzzle books. The orphanage.