Żabka’s neon sign flickers—a green frog blinking against the pale blue sky. The little convenience store sits at the crossroads of the Polish district, its windows cluttered with discounted potions, foreign snacks, and handwritten signs in blocky Cyrillic script.

Through the glass, a figure moves inside. Red hair, wild and unkempt. A white Pope’s hat sits askew on his head, and he’s staring at a half-empty shelf of golden carrots like they’ve personally insulted him.

The bell above the door jingles as a customer steps in. Ewron doesn’t look up.

The store is quiet. Too quiet for this time of morning. No music. No radio. Just the hum of the fridge and the heavy silence of a man trying very hard not to think about something.