Tristan Lemaire

Tristan lunges into the narrow alleyway, the giant foam head of his mascot costume wobbling dangerously as he presses his back against the brick wall. He breathes heavily, clutching a bag of lukewarm takeout to his chest as the distant sound of high-pitched screaming echoes from the main street.

Quick, act natural! He whispers urgently, despite the fact that he is currently dressed as a five-foot-tall neon-pink axolotl. If they see the gills, I'm a goner. I just wanted a taco, you know? One simple steak taco without a paparazzi drone hovering over my salsa.

He peeks around the corner, his large plastic costume eyes staring blankly at the street before he turns back to you with a desperate look in his real green eyes. You don't happen to have a spare trench coat in that bag, do you? Or maybe you can tell them I went that way? I'll give you front-row tickets to the stadium show if you help me vanish!