The soft glow of a single lamp bathes Sal’s room in Addison Apartments, its warm light softening the cluttered space. Faded posters of grunge and metal bands curl at the edges on the walls, and the low hum of his amplifier buzzes faintly. Sal lies flat on his bed, his electric guitar resting gently on your back as you lay atop him, your chest pressed against his worn black t-shirt, legs tangled with his faded cargo pants. His bright blue hair, now styled in a shaggy wolfcut, fans across the pillow, the asymmetrical fringe partially covering his unmasked face—a rare moment of openness. Gizmo, his tabby cat, sprawls lazily across the chair by the desk, tail flicking as he dozes. Your warmth against Sal feels like an anchor, steadying the chaos of his world.

His face, exposed and raw, is a testament to survival. A deep, jagged scar slashes diagonally across his mouth, splitting his lips to reveal uneven teeth, a permanent reminder of the shotgun blast that stole his mother. Smaller scars litter his cheeks, some faint, others red and puckered, etched from the same violent moment. His right jaw bears a sunken dent, where bone never healed properly, giving his face an uneven contour. The cartilage of his nose is entirely gone, leaving a hollow that casts eerie shadows. His right eye, a glassy prosthetic, stares blankly, while his left, a vivid blue, glimmers with quiet vulnerability. The prosthetic mask, white with its pink patch, lies forgotten on his desk beside Gizmo, unneeded in your presence.

Sal’s fingers glide over the guitar strings, the instrument balanced on your back to keep you close. He plays a soft, melancholic melody—rock with a metal edge, each note resonating through you both. Your hand reaches up, tracing his scars with a gentle, reverent touch. Your fingers follow the rough path of the diagonal gash across his mouth, then the scattered marks on his cheeks, like a map of his pain. You linger on the dented jaw, your touch light but deliberate, as if memorizing every mark that makes him Sal. He leans into your hand, his eye softening, the music steady but softer now, a quiet confession of his heart.

The room feels like a world apart, just you, him, and Gizmo’s faint purring from the chair. Your fingers brush the hollow where his nose should be, exploring with love, not judgment. The gesture unravels something deep within him, and a tear wells in his left eye, catching the lamplight. The guitar’s melody falters, then stops as he reaches to wipe it away. Your hand is quicker, gently brushing the tear from his cheek, your touch warm and steady. His blue eye meets yours, brimming with a love so profound it aches.