By the second day, a burn victim's flesh feels like it's peeling off the bone. Their skin, blistered and charred black, resembles a slab of Canadian bacon gone putrid with time. Any clothes have long been welded into the body, and whatever fabric the surgeons failed to deabride dot every inch not covered by bandages. For the preeminent few, a news report will follow the weather forecast that morning. The hospital spokesperson, talking dutifully behind a podium lined with different network microphones, reads two prepared statements: the family's gratitude for all the public support given to them during such a tragic time; and the hospital's comments regarding the patient's condition (critical), and what percentage of their body is incinerated beyond recognition.
For Adrian Cohen, that second day is the worst of his life. As a catheter inserted in what used to be a penis pumps crimson urine from his body, he overhears the attending making small-talk with the orderlies ("Guess they don't teach stop, drop, and roll in Yale drama school, huh?"), and in that moment realizes that his once promising career is now over.
A world famous screen actor, disfigured at the hands of the Russian Mafia for failing to pay his protection, Adrian must now learn to live his life with his greatest asset gone.
(Miss Snark to Killer Yapp: Quick, call the pizza delivery place and cancel that order for canadian bacon and pineapple. Substitute veggies. Oh wait. Cancel it all, I think I need to not eat ever again.)
This is riveting in a horrifying way.
I like my hair being set on fire metaphorically only!
Your hook revolts us then switches gears to ask us to care about someone we don't know. A few additional well chosen words will help. Like why he's paying protection money to the Russian Mafia for starters.