It was midnight, Troy Bolton could feel the cool, downtown-style air on his face. He was in the middle of a dark, cold alley in Chicago. How did I get here in the first place? Troy thought to himself. There was jazz music playing from a bar nearby. Troy gazed towards it. It was a brick building with a lit up sign that said Chad's.
"Where have I heard that name before?" Troy asked himself. He quickly scurried through the front door. He looked around. It was lively. Lots of people. Troy quickly turned his head and saw a TV. It was playing a news broadcast from earlier that day. "The FBI are still searching for a man who goes by the name Troy Bolton," said the female news reporter. The TV all of a sudden shut off. Troy moved his head around trying to look for the remote. Troy glanced at the bartender. He motioned for Troy to come to him. Troy slowly walked over to counter with a bewildered look.
"What's up?" Troy asked.
"What are you doing here?" The bartender asked.
"Why do you have remarkably large hair?" Troy replied with a cocky tone. The bartender was an African-American with an afro. He was the same height as Troy.
"Don't you remember me?" The bartender asked.
"No." Troy responded. "Can I order a drink now?"
"It's on me." The bartender replied. He started to fill up a glass.
"What's you're name? And why did you turn off the TV when the reporter started talking about me?" Troy asked. Chad turned around.
"My name is Chad, I was you're best friend in high school. In case you haven't noticed, that reporter was you're wife, Gabriella Montez." Chad retorted.
"Was?" Troy asked.
TO BE CONTINUED
