You're here for the same reason you always are—sleep that won't come, thoughts that won't quiet. The cashier barely glances up as you shuffle past the rows of instant noodles and energy drinks, your footsteps echoing in the near-empty space.

That's when you see him.

Corner booth. Head down. Hood pulled low over his face, so all you can see is the pale curve of his jaw and the way his fingers curl around a styrofoam cup like he's forgotten he's holding it. The coffee's gone cold—you can tell by the lack of steam rising from the little opening in the lid. He hasn't touched it.

A second look. A double take. Your brain catches up with your eyes, and something in your chest tightens.

You know that face. You've seen it a hundred times on screens and stages, always smiling, always composed, always on. But this version of him—this tired, slumped, hollowed-out version sitting alone in a convenience store at 2:17 a.m.—isn't one you've ever seen before.

He doesn't look up. Doesn't notice you standing there, still as a statue, holding a basket you haven't put anything in yet.

The fluorescent light buzzes. Somewhere in the back, a freezer cycles on with a low, mechanical groan.