The city was a vast ocean, swallowing Hollis whole as he drifted along its currents.
He navigated it like an outsider, as though he hadn't spent hours of his life within these very streets. But those days felt like a past life to him now as he strolled along, his hood drawn up. His ribs still protested with each breath, a dull ache that flared sharply whenever he twisted wrong or moved too quickly. The bruises along his jaw throbbed in time with his pulse. But he pressed on, the glare of dappled sunlight through scattered dogwoods flickering over his features. He approached Ansley Street's gleaming exterior like a moth drawn to dying light.
The building looked different in daylight—less intimidating, all sleek and businesslike. Steam rose from the manholes like ghosts, carrying the smell of wet asphalt. Hollis pulled his hood lower, though he knew—without his mask—he was just another damaged soul wandering the city.
It hadn't been until after he left the hospital that he realized—he didn't know where his mask was. He remembered having it tucked inside the front pocket of his hoodie during the after-party, as though it were a tether, his security. But everything that came after was muddled in his mind, and the only thing he knew to do was to begin his search at the venue.
He rounded the building and checked the side door where he'd fled from the conflict. He peered behind maintenance sheds, crouched painfully to examine storm drains. His fingers came away grimy with residue, but no trace of his black and blue persona.
He tried to map his fractured memories of that night onto the concrete reality of daylight, focusing on a promising shadow behind a row of dumpsters. The space reeked of rotting food and stale beer, forcing him to breathe through his mouth as he searched. Cardboard boxes had dissolved into pulp under the rain, revealing nothing but remnants of rats and the metallic glint of bottle caps.
A sharp pain lanced through his side as he straightened. He pressed his palm against his ribs, feeling the tender swelling beneath his shirt. The hospital had given him painkillers, but they were tucked away, unused, in his jacket pocket. He needed the clarity that came with discomfort—needed to feel every consequence of his choices written in the bruises across his skin.
He walked down the block and checked behind every door, every dumpster, every piece of discarded furniture, every collection of boxes and bags. His legs grew weary from the walk, but he kept searching, driven by something more profound than logic. His mask wasn't just material and paint—it was the bridge between who he was and who he needed to be. It was his reminder of everything he'd promised he would be.
A businessman in an expensive coat paused at the mouth of the alley where Hollis stood, watching Hollis dig through a pile of construction debris. The man's expression shifted from concern to distrust as he took in Hollis's bruised face and desperate movements. For a moment, Hollis saw himself reflected in the stranger's gaze—wild-haired and hollow-eyed, more threat than victim. The businessman hurried away, phone pressed to his ear.
Hollis let out a long sigh, standing up straight. This was how he appeared without his mask—no recognition, only suspicion. No adoration, but fear. And without it, he was nobody, exposed to the judgment of the world.
The search carried him through a geography of disappointment. Behind a Chinese restaurant, he found only empty takeout containers and the skeletal remains of an umbrella. In the shadow of a parking garage, cigarette butts and shattered glass crunched under his shoes, but no mask materialized from the urban mulch. Each failure felt personal, as if the city itself was conspiring to keep him exposed.
His left knee buckled when he climbed over a chain-link fence, sending him stumbling against a brick wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs and set his ribs on fire all over again, but he welcomed the pain. It was real, uncomplicated by the tangled web of expectations that had brought him here.
Sirens wailed in the distance, soon fading into the urban cacophony of horns and engines and construction noise. Hollis pressed his forehead against the cool brick and closed his eyes.
A silence crashed over him, then, thick with the truth that some things lost are never just things.
His final hour of searching took him to places he'd never been—alleys and old buildings and forgotten corners where the city's grand design broke down into worn-out remnants of the past. He found forgotten pieces of other people's lives—lost shoes, abandoned shopping carts, scraps of clothing that might once have been someone's favorite shirt. But no mask. No piece of himself waiting to be found. So he decided it was gone—dissolved into the city's digestive system. Claimed by some storm drain or garbage truck, or perhaps picked up by a stranger who would possibly never understand what they'd found.
He made his way back to the main street, walking for what felt like hours. His path led him down a sidewalk where faded storefronts lined the streets like forgotten landmarks—a tattoo parlor with bars on its windows, a liquor store, its sign blinking in tired rhythms. A building beside it towered above him, its sign reading, "Club Seven."
The sign flickered like a dying heartbeat. The "l" and the "S" had given up, leaving "Cub even" to buzz and stutter. Hollis paused beneath it, drawn by something he couldn't name—a magnetic pull that had nothing to do with the building's shabby exterior and everything to do with the muffled sounds bleeding through its walls.
Music. Live music, raw and unpolished, punctuated by genuine applause that felt different from the enthusiasm of arena crowds. He could hear a guitar, fingerpicked rather than strummed, and a voice that cracked on the high notes but carried on anyway. It was the kind of performance that would never make it past the first round of any talent show, but it pulsed with something even Willow's own perfectly engineered acoustics could never capture—honesty.
Hollis leaned in, peeking through dim windows. Mismatched tables and chairs created an intimate geography around a small stage that looked like it had been cobbled together from salvaged wood and good intentions. People sat with drinks, leaning forward to catch each other's words, their faces lit by the warm glow of string lights that had probably been hanging there since the Carter administration. A chalkboard sign leaned against the brick wall beside the door, its message written in swirly white letters: "Open Mic Night - All Welcome."
The words seemed to glow despite the evening light. Inside, the audience—maybe twenty people scattered across the small space—watched with the kind of attention that felt sacred. No phones glowed, no conversations overtook the music. They were present in a way that felt foreign to Hollis, now accustomed to seas of faces illuminated by screens. Capturing moments instead of living them.
The performer on the small stage fumbled his opening chords, laughed at his mistake, and started again. The audience smiled with him, not at him. He found his rhythm, and the song was simple, something about lost love and second chances, but it filled the space. A wave of applause rippled through the room when he finished, his relief evident even from outside. People called out encouragements, someone bought him a drink, and he disappeared into the warm room of strangers.
Hollis felt a tug of recognition and the pull of something unfinished, something more than just another night in another city. He stood there, wondering if, this time, the absence of expectation might be the thing to save him.
His hand found the door handle on its own, the metal cold against his palm, and he opened it before he could change his mind. Conversations paused as heads turned toward him with the casual curiosity of any newcomer. In their faces, he saw no judgment, no expectation—only the mild interest of people wondering if he might be the next to share something of himself.
Hollis crossed the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him.