The scent of stale fryer oil and industrial-strength lemon bleach was etched into Ethan’s skin. It was Saturday, the day when the chicken shop turned into a revolving door of rowdy teenagers, tired parents, and the occasional drunk looking for a greasy fix. Ethan had been on his feet for ten hours straight, his back aching and his fingers stained with the yellow hue of seasoned flour.
He was in the middle of bagging a "Family Mega Bucket" for a woman who was complaining about the price of extra gravy when the bell above the door chimed. Ethan didn't need to look up. He felt the shift in the air—the sudden, suffocating weight of a presence that always made the room feel too small.
James walked in. He looked entirely out of place in his designer jacket, his sharp features illuminated by
