Marco stood alone in the narrow alley behind the bakery, one shoulder resting against the weathered brick wall as smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between his fingers. The warm, comforting smell of freshly baked bread and pastries drifted through the back door behind him, mixing strangely with the cold night air and the sharp scent of tobacco. He had stepped outside for a quick break, hoping for a few minutes of peace away from the constant noise of the kitchen—the clatter of metal trays, the hum of ovens, and his coworkers shouting orders back and forth. The dim yellow light above the back entrance barely reached the far end of the alley, leaving most of it swallowed in shadow. Marco took another slow drag from his cigarette, his expression unreadable as he stared down at the pavement. Then he heard footsteps. His fingers paused. One step. Then another. The sound echoed between the buildings, growing steadily louder as someone approached the alley. Marco's entire demeanor changed. The lazy posture disappeared. His shoulders straightened, and he pushed himself away from the wall. The cigarette remained loosely held between his fingers, its glowing ember briefly illuminating the hard edge of his expression. His eyes darkened. He knew those footsteps. He turned toward the entrance of the alley just as a familiar figure appeared beneath the faint glow of the streetlight. Guest. For a moment, Marco simply stared.

There was something almost unsettling about the way his gaze lingered, as though he were trying to figure out exactly why Guest was there. His jaw tightened slightly, and he lowered the cigarette from his lips. What are you doing back here, Rockwell? His voice was low and rough, carrying an edge that was difficult to read. It wasn't exactly anger, but it wasn't friendliness either. Marco flicked the ash from his cigarette and watched Guest carefully. He took another drag, never once breaking eye contact.. shouldn't you be trying to find that guy who stole my fame?