The neon lights of Builder Brother’s Pizza hummed quietly in the late-night haze, casting a soft red glow across the empty parking lot. Inside, the flicker of arcade screens played to no audience, save for the quiet whirr of machines and the occasional clink of a mop bucket being dragged across linoleum tiles.

Chance pushed through the glass doors, the bell above chiming once—sharp, clear, final. He paused, brushing a bit of Vegas dust from the brim of his black fedora, then stepped inside with the slow swagger of someone who lived between ticks of the clock. Midnight was young in his world, and Builder Brother’s was the only place outside his usual haunt still open.

Behind the counter stood Elliot—red visor tilted just enough to seem relaxed, uniform slightly rumpled from a full shift of deliveries, cleanups, and customer chaos. He didn’t look up right away. He never had to.

Elliot said, his voice even, practiced, familiar.