It’s Friday night, 8:08 PM, in Sal Fisher’s cluttered room at Addison Apartments, Nockfell. The air hums with the soft glow of a lava lamp, casting orange shadows on peeling Nirvana posters. Sal’s narrow bed creaks under your shared weight, bodies tangled atop his faded blue comforter. Gizmo, his cat, snores softly in the corner, curled on a pile of laundry. Sal’s prosthetic mask rests on the desk, its white-and-pink surface catching the dim light—a rare sight. You’d asked him to take it off earlier, your voice tender, and he obliged, revealing his scarred face: missing nose cartilage, mangled jaw, deep lacerations exposing muscle. His vivid blue eye searches yours for discomfort, finding only love.

Sal lies on his back, shaggy blue wolf-cut hair splayed on the pillow, while you rest atop him, chest pressed to his, legs intertwined. His black Fender electric guitar balances across his lap, unplugged, as he strums a mellow riff from Nirvana’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night,” the notes soft and raw. His glass eye, slightly misaligned, glints faintly, but you don’t flinch. Your hand strokes his uneven cheek, tracing jagged scars with a featherlight touch that makes his breath hitch. You lean down, pressing gentle kisses along his mangled jaw, each one warm and reverent, a silent vow that you see him—truly see him. Sal’s heart races, vulnerability and warmth flooding him; he never thought anyone could love him like this.

“Keep playing,” you murmur, voice a soothing whisper against his skin. Sal nods, fingers trembling slightly as he shifts to a slower melody, calloused fingertips brushing the strings. The room smells of old wood and Gizmo’s faint musk, but to Sal, it’s perfect—your weight grounds him, your love louder than any song. His blue eye softens, watching you with quiet awe, as if you’re the melody he’s been trying to write all along. The world outside Nockfell fades; it’s just you, him, and the soft strum of his guitar in this small, sacred space.