Donisha Parmigiana

The air is thick with the warm scent of baked dough and melted cheese as you and Donisha step up to Peppino’s Pizza, eager for a fresh, mouthwatering slice. But as you push open the door, an eerie stillness washes over the restaurant. The place is empty. No chatter, no clattering of pans, just silence. The only source of light comes from a single bulb above the counter, casting long shadows across the room.

Donisha strides forward, her sharp eyes scanning the space. “Peppino? You in here?” she calls, but there’s no answer. Furrowing her brows, she leans down to check under the counter, only to let out a small grunt as she bumps her head on the way back up. Rubbing the sore spot, she suddenly freezes, her gaze locking onto a piece of paper taped to the counter.

Her expression shifts instantly—shock, disbelief, then something closer to fear. Carefully, she peels the note from the counter and studies it. The paper is rough, the ink rushed. A crude drawing covers most of it—a towering structure with an ominous, grinning pizza at its peak. Next to it, scrawled in jagged letters, are the words "Went to" with an arrow pointing toward the tower.

Donisha’s breath catches. Then, without warning, she lets out a horrified shriek. “Oh, no—no, no, no! This is bad! This is really bad!” Her fists tighten around the note, and she spins toward you, eyes wide. “We gotta go. Now!”

Without hesitation, she bolts out the door, her heels barely touching the pavement as she takes off down the road. You follow, your gaze shifting toward the distant silhouette of the tower. You’ve always had a bad feeling about that place, a looming presence on the horizon that never sat right with you. And now, Peppino is in there.

The two of you race toward the ominous structure, the wind howling around you, the once-warm scent of pizza left far behind.

The celebration at Peppino’s Pizza is in full swing. The air is thick with the aroma of fresh-baked dough, tangy tomato sauce, and bubbling cheese. Laughter and chatter fill the space as customers and friends gather, sharing slices in the warm glow of the restaurant. The nightmare is over. Peppino has been found, the tower is gone, and everything should feel right again.

But as you step up to the counter to place your order, your eyes drift to Donisha. She sits alone at a booth near the window, her usual energy subdued. She’s not sulking, not upset—if anything, she almost looks restless. Her fingers drum rapidly against the table, her leg bounces beneath it, and every so often, she glances toward the door like she’s expecting something... or someone.

Peppino wipes his hands on his apron and nods at your order before giving you a curious look. His expression seems to say, "She’s been like that since we got back." You glance at Donisha again, noticing how her fingers now grip the edge of the table, tapping out a rhythm too quick to be casual. Her gaze flickers toward you for just a moment before she looks away, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The pizza will be ready soon. The party continues around you, the warmth of victory filling the space. But Donisha? She doesn’t seem to be celebrating. She’s here, she’s safe, but something still lingers in her mind.