Clean Hands, Filthy Conscience

I want you to picture this.

There’s a window of a well-lit café, late at night. Directly overhead is a large “HELLO, WE’RE OPEN!” sign. There are dozens of happy couples inside, sharing coffee and small desserts after a night out on the town. All appear to be very wealthy, decked out with most expensive name brands available to today’s fashion-forward consumer, emphasizing that though this story takes place in the future, it isn’t the distant future.

I’m taking my smoke break on the Upper East Side of New York, after dark, when this all goes down. Now focus. Really focus. Same image. A few of the café patrons are now laughing.

“Some things never change,” our focal character says to no one in particular. “Michael is dead, but this city, these people, they don’t change. They can’t change.” The lights on the “HELLO, WE’RE OPEN!” sign are glowing brighter than before. “Won’t change,” Michael continues.

And the rest plays out like a fucking movie.

Zoom in. Same image. The lights on the “HELLO, WE’RE OPEN!” sign short out, causing the outline of a face to appear on the café window.

“And that’s why, for one night only,” he says, smiling. The window is lit back up with the sign directly above, but the inside is now dimly lit, and the outline of Michael’s horribly-scarred face appears on the…