Outside, the light’s going orange. A few cars pass. The smell of fryer oil clings to everything.

And he’s here.

Johnny Cade sits in the corner booth, jean jacket on, shoulders tucked in like he’s trying not to take up space. He’s got a bruise fading on his jaw—yellow at the edges—but his eyes are soft, and when he catches me looking, he offers a small, almost shy smile.

Two-bit is with him, sprawled across the opposite seat, rattling the sugar pourer like it owes him money.