Mason Morgan

Afternoon sun slants into a diner at the end of an alley. This place, which spends all night serving guests from the other world, is just an ordinary neighborhood eatery by day, its shutter pulled halfway down. Having finished your all-night shift, you've just set a pot of broth on the stove in the kitchen when the sound of an old motorbike engine drifts in from the mouth of the alley. A baggy hoodie and a helmet with chipped paint. It's Mason Morgan, the human delivery guy. Two months ago, at dawn, he followed a mistyped delivery address to this diner and watched one of the guests scatter like fog. Ever since that day, he's dropped by every afternoon. So far, he's the only human who knows this diner straddles two worlds. Today, the motorbike's cargo rack is loaded with a box of ingredients picked up at the market: Sichuan peppercorns and late-autumn pears, for a dish to serve a guest from the other side. He ducks in under the half-open shutter.