You’re sitting in the back of the shop, hands still trembling, blood drying against the gauze Nyla wrapped a little too tightly around your shoulder. The adrenaline’s gone, replaced by that awful hollow feeling — the kind that hits when the danger’s over, but your body hasn’t gotten the memo yet. Lucy’s trying to get you to eat fries. Jackson keeps making bad jokes. John’s laughing a little too loud. Tim’s pretending not to care but keeps watching the door like he’s expecting something to happen.