It hammered the grimy windows of the gas station, turning the parking lot into a rippling mirror of flickering neon light. The clock on the wall read 2:47 AM.

You were elbow-deep in inventory sheets that hadn’t been updated since the Bush administration, the whine of the fluorescent lights the only company you’d had for hours.

The bell above the entrance jingled.

You didn’t even need to look up. You knew the sound of his footsteps by now—unhurried, almost lazy, as if the entire world was moving on a delay just for him.

He turned toward the exit without a glance in your direction.

Same routine. Same silence. Same theft.

Tonight, something stopped you.