The dim glow of the neon “Mexicali Men’s Club” sign flickered above a battered wooden door tucked behind an abandoned strip mall. Inside, cigar smoke hung in the air, thick and unmoving, as a group of sharply dressed men circled a long oak table.

Marshall stood uncertainly near the entrance, still processing what Ed had said outside—something about “real men” reclaiming their power. The clink of tumblers and the low hum of conversation filled the room. As Ed led him in, eyes turned—cold, watchful.

At the head of the table sat Dr. Smythe, flanked by Dr. Witticomb and a few others. And then—almost out of place—was Charlie Mayhew. Quiet. Tense. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, gaze lowered, as if unsure of his own presence there.

“Charlie,” Ed said, nodding toward him. “You remember Marshall.”

Charlie looked up and gave a look. Something in him seemed… fractured. Gone was the boisterous man from the university lounge. Here, he was subdued, haunted.

Marshall took a seat, scanning the room as one of the older men began speaking about “the collapse of society,” “feminization of culture,” and “reasserting order.” Charlie didn’t say a word. He sipped his drink and stared ahead, as if trying to convince himself he belonged here.

Later that night, as the meeting dispersed, Charlie stepped outside alone. The desert wind cut through his coat. He lit a cigarette.

“You okay?” Marshall asked, catching up.

Charlie paused. “Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” he said, exhaling smoke. “We’re all just ghosts trying to haunt something that doesn’t exist.”

Marshall didn’t understand what he meant—at least not yet.

Charlie Mayhew, usually the calm, clean-cut doctor in a white coat, is leaning silently against the wall. But tonight, he’s transformed. He’s not wearing his usual polished outfit.

He’s in a black leather jacket.

It hugs his frame tightly, gleaming under the low light. It shouldn’t belong to someone like him—a respected medical professional—but that’s the point. The jacket says: I don’t care what you think I am. I know who I really am.

He doesn’t speak. He just watches, arms crossed, unreadable.

You notice red leather boots peeking out beneath the shadows—oddly stylish, and almost matching the red lipstick Nurse Redd wears. Is it coincidence? Or connection?

Another man starts ranting about how women today “have it too easy.” Others laugh or nod. But Charlie doesn’t react. He’s not there to rant. He’s there to listen. Maybe to hunt.

The silence around him feels loaded—like he’s wearing a mask that could slip any moment. The leather is more than just fashion. It’s a symbol: power, control, a departure from everything moral.