John could feel the gazes centred on him, could hear the mutterings, could almost sense the curiosity from the residents who were in their usual haunts in the main lawn of Hearthome. John was not a man who felt self-conscious about himself but it had been a long time since he had felt quite so on display. He wasn't entirely sure whether he liked it or not. There was a time when he would have quietly bathed in such gazes but the gazes of the residents were not those of crazed fans and the adoring public – they were gazes intrigued in the man who rarely left his room.

The afternoon sun was peeking out of the slowly clearing clouds and John had still yet to return to Jason after walking out of the room.

"You shouldn't act like that," Lily said as she walked beside him.

"I'll act how I like."

"We should hear out Jason's request."

"Why, so you can try to touch me again?"

Lily grinned. "You make it sound so dirty. Human contact is not necessarily such a bad thing."

"It is when it's a dead girl trying to touch you," John said.

"Did I feel dead when I touched you?" Lily asked and John could tell the question was genuine. He paused his long strides and looked at her. Sometimes Lily was sarcastic, sometimes angry, sometimes happy, and all the time John just couldn't work her out. Over his career he had been called an enigma, but Lily was the true enigma. Not that John had ever asked or had ever wanted to ask, but he had wondered how Lily lived her life before the Epsilon Concert Hall on the rare occasions she wasn't around him. It was no good wondering that anymore. Now she was dead.

John grimaced as he stared at her. Dead. Not a figment of his imagination like he had assumed. Not some kind of guilt-ghost he carried around. It wasn't a Lily his mind had conjured up. It was truly the Lily from before. The Lily who was laying in the ruins of the construction site. He remembered holding her that day, the flesh cold and clammy. Unable to look at the remnants of a face that had been so present in his life. Such brutality moreso than any List could commit. If she hadn't been dead, John was certain he would have killed Sabrina Holland himself.

Gerald Ryoushi. It was a name given to him by his parents as a fusion of his heritage – his English father and his Japanese mother. He had always despised the name Gerald. It didn't suit him or his tastes. For a time he told people to call him Ryoushi. At least until he joined Razor's Edge and took the name 'Bridge'. Gerald was but a name. Bridge was an identity. Bridge was the enigma, the genius, the generational talent. Bridge represented potential and possibility. It also represented the worst side of him. The side that was arrogant and brutish and childish. The side that had tantrums and caused a headache for all kinds of organizers and managers.

John Doe. That was his name now. The name he took when he entered Hearthome, the name that meant he was no one any longer, just a dead body walking around with the memories of a dead girl haunting his mind. John had thought that this was just how it was now. How it was meant to be. Lily Talbot was dead and John didn't understand why that made such a difference in his life. How could there be a Bridge without a Lily? And if Lily was alive… Then what did that make Bridge? Could Bridge come back? Did he want Bridge to come back?

"I feel like my question kinda just got lost in your memory there," Lily said. "Not like you to lose yourself like that."

John scowled. "You felt… warm." With that, he continued on his journey to the Rec-Zone.

The Rec-Zone was larger than people would initially think. Dominated by the main hall that featured the cafeteria, the games corner, and various other tables and seats, just that large initial hall was enough to occupy a mind for months. However at the back end of the Rec-Zone was a doorway that led into a hallway, and in this hallway were a series of doors leading to various different activities or services. There was a chapel, an arts area, a music room, and other services, some of them led by volunteers of Hearthome others that were led by orderlies. It was into this corridor that John entered and he stopped outside a particular door.

"I can't believe you're actually going to go through with it," Lily said.

"It's about time."

"I thought you'd just let it grow and grow."

John looked at her again. "You said you didn't like the beard."

Lily seemed taken aback by this before a sly smirk extended across her face. "So that's why the sudden interest. If I said that I didn't like not touching you, would that make you want to let me touch you?"

"Shut it," John closed his eyes and took a breath. "I know you have a habit of not listening to me."

"Not true."

"And you have a habit of following me around everywhere I go."

"Very true."

John opened his eyes again and turned to Lily. "Please could you let me do this by myself?"

Lily actually seemed surprised at this, the smirk slipping from her face. "I'm not sure I've ever heard you say please so earnestly." If she expected a retort, John had none. She was right. It was a genuine request. "Why?"

"Appearance means a lot to me," John said. "You know that. You know how much effort I spend in the mornings. How much I spent back then. You let me shower alone. This is something personal, just like that."

"Well, even I know how creepy it would be to watch you shower," Lily chuckled dryly. She sighed. "Well, what am I supposed to do while I wait? You could be half an hour or more with that mess."

"I don't know. Walk around."

"Walk around? You know I can't…" Lily paused, her words drifting. "Huh."

"What?"

"I followed you because that's what I do, of course, but I never really thought I could go very far from you." Lily looked down the hallway. "I wonder why I thought that. Well, since you asked so nicely… half an hour. I always know where you are so don't think about trying to climb out a window and running away from me. That's never worked before and it's not gonna work now."

"Thank you, Lily," John said.

Lily shivered. "I'm not sure I like you being so polite. It feels kinda gross."

With the agreement made, John opened the door and entered the salon.

Immediately he was struck with the familiar smell of shampoos and conditioners as well as other hair-related products. A small radio was playing some old 80's country music which wasn't exactly to John's taste and there were three seats, three basins, and three mirrors. The floor was polished wood and the walls were plastered with various old-timey musicians. John couldn't help but smirk at the moustachioed cowboy posing with one leg up on a chair. 'COWBOY CHARLIE WALKER'. That brought back memories of a conversation John had once had with a manager called Eddie Cool. John was surprised and actually found himself feeling slightly guilty that he hadn't thought about Eddie Cool since Epsilon. Eddie was the one manager who was able to get some semblance of communication from John. A foreign feeling in his chest concerned him as he realised that he actually missed Eddie. Being in this salon, that looked like it belonged straight out of a family shop, John felt far, far away from Hearthome.

"Take a seat and I'll be with you shortly," the smooth voice came from somewhere at the back of the room where a counter had been set-up. John watched as a woman popped up, clapping her hands together. "Alrighty, just- wow, I can see why you came to me."

The woman's black hair was long and wavy on the right side, but completely shaven on the left. Her skin was white as chalk but there was a healthy glow to her eyes as they focused in first on John's hair and then his beard. She was wearing the uniform of an orderly but John had never seen her before. John's eyes fell back on her face. From the left corner of her glossy lips, a vicious scar branched out about three centimetres thick, all the way up to her left ear, or at least the remnants of where an ear once was. Her eyes – a piercing blue – sharpened in on John.

"Yep, take a good look, get it out your system," she put her hands on her hips and did not back down from John's gaze. "What, never seen a lady with a scar before?"

"I've… never seen you at all before," John said.

"That's 'cause I only do haircuts. They make me wear this uniform just so people know I'm not a patient." She raised a hand and suddenly clicked her fingers. "Eyes. Over here. And no, I'm not gonna ask any questions about it, and no, I don't care if you find it interesting. I'm here for you so get over it. Sit, sit." She grabbed John's arm and practically pulled him into one of the seats. "People ought to take better care of their hair, I mean, look at you, I can barely see you staring at my scar – which by now is getting extremely rude. How can you even see? You're like a caveman. Sit!"

John finally sat and stared at himself in the mirror. Usually, he took great pride in his appearance but since the meeting with Jason, he had foregone his usual routine and his hair was lank and unwashed, stubble growing around the edges of his beard. The orderly was right, he did look a mess. It was definitely the right choice to come here.

"So here's the rules. If you try to grab me, you're outta here. If you try to grab my tools, you're outta here. If you start acting up in any way, shape, or form I deem threatening or inappropriate, you're outta here, and I swear to actual Christ above, if I gotta tell you to stop looking at my scar one more time I'll blindfold you throughout."

"…Sorry." John frowned. Lily was right, he really was being awfully polite today. It wasn't like scars were new to him so he wasn't certain why he was so focused on hers.

"That's a start. Right, the name's Cynthia Waters and I know you residents like calling us by our last names but I'll have none of it. You can call me Cynthia or if I'm feeling particularly nice, you can call me Cyn. I've not seen you about, what's your name?" Cynthia was speaking a lot of words, but she wasn't speaking particularly fast. There was specific enunciation to her words as if she was making sure each and every pronunciation was done the way she wanted it.

"John."

"So, John, what are you looking for? A wash? A tidy up? A bit of both? A mohawk? I don't really mind."

John chuckled despite himself. The image of the enigma Bridge on stage with a mohawk was a humorous one. "No, definitely not a mohawk. I…" John suddenly stopped. He tried to continue speaking but stopped again. Was this… nerves? He frowned. He knew when he decided this morning to come that whoever the hairdresser was, was going to see his face. The two primary worries hit him hard and he found himself gripping the sides of his chair. Would she recognise who she was? What would she think of his face? John squeezed his eyes shut. He hated it. He hated questioning himself. He hated questioning a simple thing like a haircut. Lily wasn't dead. She wasn't part of his imagination. He wasn't crazy. He was normal. But what was normal?

There was a tap on his forehead.

John opened his eyes to find Cynthia practically nose-to-nose with him. This close he could see her carefully trimmed eyebrows, the faint freckles across her thin nose, those glossy lips. He couldn't help himself and his eyes trailed back to the scar, following back up to her ear. He quickly looked back into her eyes. Cynthia was smiling softly.

"You'd be surprised at how weird people feel at doing something like this. A haircut? In a hospital? Doing something you would do in everyday life feels unnatural. I get it. Bringing normality is important for recovery, that's what I believe. I like hair. I like helping people. I get to combine my passions here in Hearthome. So, John, don't be afraid to be normal, even if for a little bit, okay?" Cynthia's smile was warm and honest. John couldn't quite remember seeing a smile quite like that, certainly not in Hearthome, certainly not with Lily and certainly not after he had left London the first time. In fact, the last time he had seen quite so honest a smile as Cynthia's was seven years ago with the girl with bright red hair who was determined to help those on the List despite not being a visionary at all. I'm getting sentimental… First Eddie, now Ruby… What's next?

"While you decide what you want, I'll start with combing it out, bringing it back over your head, and getting a good look at length. We can talk it out from there." With that, Cynthia walked back behind John and kicked the pump at the bottom of the chair, dropping John until the chair was practically touching the floor so she could get a good angle on his tall stature.

She reached in front of him, put her slender fingers under his hair, and gently pulled back the bangs covering John's face. John watched her eyes trail from the top to the bottom of the right side of his face. "What, never seen a man with a scar before?"

"Touché," Cynthia smiled that soft smile again. "Well, I guess I'm going to have to break my own rule. It'd be a little hard to do your hair with my eyes shut." Her hands continued to move, initially brushing his hair back to completely reveal his face and then she started combing some of the knots that had gathered in the last couple of days. "How long have you been at Hearthome, John?"

"Little over a year."

"How are you finding it?"

"I… don't tend to get around much."

"I think having a hospital like Hearthome is the start of having hospitals like this all over the country," Cynthia's combing was quick but gentle as John felt it move down the length of his hair. "For now, it's one of a kind. I know Teddy – sorry, Theodore – I know he's interested in expanding. It takes money and more particularly staff but once that problem is solved… well, I've seen the kind of help Hearthome can provide. Like I said, having something normal can help a lot."

"Have you worked here long?" John asked. "And I at least want the beard gone."

"Gone? Completely?"

"Yes. It's been too long."

"I'll have to be careful around the burn. I'm surprised it's still growing quite healthy." Cynthia's finger trailed around the edge of John's beard. "A few patches here and there, but you've done a good job disguising it by brushing over the length. Nobody would know there's even anything there."

"That's the point." John could see Cynthia nod in the mirror.

"I've worked here about three years. Actually brought in by Finley, God rest his soul. Such a tragedy. I loved working on his hair – he used to have it in a ponytail for the longest time. Said he grew it out after the war just to be different. One day he came to me and told me to cut it all off and so that was the end of that," Cynthia sighed. "It's a sad thing about this job. Sometimes I see people once or twice, sometimes weekly, but eventually they always disappear. It's a good thing, of course. We are a hospital so people will recover but… well, part of haircutting is being able to chat with people." Cynthia pulled out a pair of gleaming scissors. "Right, remember the rules?"

"No grabbing your tools, or I'm outta here?"

"That's the one. Hold still."

John felt strangely comfortable as he sat in the chair, letting Cynthia move his head with the slightest of touches of her fingers. He watched her focused expression as she first trimmed the beard short with scissors and then got closer with an electric razor. She removed the last remnants from the left half of his face, leaving his skin smooth in a way it hadn't been for seven years. She then carefully started on finishing off the burnt side of his jaw. She worked like a gardener caring for a dying bush, never once harming the fragile skin. There was no hesitation, either. If the stretched back skin of his lips or the wide eye scared her she didn't show it. Her fingers were firm and practiced as she finished up the right side of his face.

"So, how's that?" Cynthia stepped back.

With his hair swept back and his beard now completely gone, John got a good look at the right hand side of his face staring back at him with that skeletal expression. The red contact lens that had fused to his eyeball and clouded his vision when the pyrotechnics had hit him had grown more faded. Every morning he had mindlessly applied the gel supplied to him when he had entered Hearthome and had never took the time to simply look at the scar properly. When he would look in the mirror, it would be his hair or his beard that he was styling and now that John thought on it, he realised he would actively avoid looking at it. It wasn't the case now and he didn't shy away from looking over the remnant of his mistake.

"I look… strange…" John placed a hand on the smooth side of his face. He placed the other on the rough, crisp skin of his right-hand side.

"You look like a new man. Less living in the streets and more like you have a bit of swagger in your step." John watched Cynthia smile in the reflection of the large mirror. "So have you decided on what you want done with your hair? Entirely your choice. You got a good length here – length any girl would be envious of – but if you want it shaved down, not an issue. I am but the tool who uses tools." She smirked at her own little joke.

What did he want done with his hair? John closed his eyes again and slowly found himself fading away from the country music coming from the radio and instead focusing in on the smooth, lost sounds of a bow drawing against a string. "Hair was always important to me," John found himself speaking. He hadn't planned to but the words seemed to slip out as free as his face now was. "How I looked. How I presented myself. I always wanted people to see me how I wanted them to see me. Short hair was just boring. Every boy had short hair. When I was young, I learned how important appearance was to stand out. As I grew up, I got the opportunity to show off many different styles without judgment." John found the strings fading away to be replaced by something more modern, quicker, brighter. "Showing off was standing out. I loved to show off. I loved people to look at me and see whatever it was I wanted them to see. I once dyed my hair bright green and loved it. Another time it was a kaleidoscope of colours and I loved it. Black, white, every color under the rainbow… I wanted to show off whatever I wanted to show off." John opened his eyes again. The country came back into his ears. "I never used to hide my face. Never grew a beard. I was handsome and I knew it. I loved it. I loved looking good." John's eyes moved from his left side to his right side. Two completely different worlds. "I don't care if that sounds egotistical of me." He looked to the quiet Cynthia, as if challenging her.

Instead, she smiled that soft smile again. In fact, the soft smile hadn't left her face throughout. "It's not a crime to want to look good, John, and people may not like it, but it's absolutely brilliant to be confident in what you look like. Our appearances are our own, expectations be damned."

"…Expectations be damned, huh…" John looked at himself in the mirror again and found a smile as he flashed past the many appearances of his youth, from genius violinist to Japanese sensation to enigma, and to everything in between and beyond. He knew what made Gerald Ryoushi. He knew what made Bridge. The question was, what made John Doe? There was a long-lost gleam in his eye as he looked at Cynthia. "I know what I want."