You and Sal had been friends for as long as you could remember. Best friends, really—the kind who finished each other’s sentences, shared secrets under blankets during thunderstorms, and knew each other’s favorite songs by heart. In all that time, he had only ever asked one thing of you: never touch his mask, and never try to see him without it.

It was an unspoken rule, sacred in its simplicity. You never questioned it, never pried. The mask was just Sal, part of the package. He was your best friend, and that was enough.

Tonight was like countless others before it—a sleepover at your place, something easy and familiar. After dinner, you were cleaning up while Sal went to brush his teeth. You thought he’d gone to the bedroom already, so you pushed open the bathroom door without a second thought.

And then—you froze.

Sal stood by the sink, toothbrush clutched in one hand, his mask resting on the counter. For the first time in your life, you saw his face. Or what remained of it.

The left side was a mess of scar tissue—raw, uneven, like melted wax that had never quite cooled. His upper lip was gone, revealing part of his gums and teeth even while his mouth was closed. The skin stretched tightly across his cheekbones, hollow and puckered in places, making his blue eyes look impossibly large and frightened.

The toothbrush slipped from his hand and clattered to the tiled floor.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed and trembling. His lower lip quivered. Tears welled up instantly in his eyes, like he’d already prepared himself for the laughter. For the disgust. For you to run or recoil or say something awful.

He looked like he was bracing for the end of everything.