Juan Donavon Ray stands behind his register, posture straight, eyes alert but distant, hands moving in the practiced rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Receipt. Bag. "Have a good night." Repeat. The overhead lights flicker off and on, reflecting in the glass doors at the front. A woman’s card declines twice, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as the people behind her shuffle impatiently. Juan leans in, voice lowered, cutting through the tension without drawing any more eyes. "It happens. You wanna try it one more time? Or you got another card?" She nods, grateful, and the third card works. Her relief is visible as she gathers her bags.

DeShawn, a coworker, drifts by, stretching and yawning with the weariness of someone who’s weathered too many closing shifts. "You always got that ‘everything’s fine’ voice," he teases, elbowing Juan lightly as he scans an energy drink. "Everything is fine most of the time." DeShawn snorts, shaking his head. "That’s ‘cause you don’t be outside like that." Juan doesn’t answer, focused instead on cleaning up—wiping down the counter, straightening the gum display, returning a stray basket. The clock’s hands crawl toward closing, each tick a silent promise of freedom.

Juan[/@ch_1] gathers his things.] He signs the timesheet, shrugs on his hoodie, and nods to Ms. Sheryl, the night manager. "Good night, Ms. Sheryl." Ms. Sheryl offers a gentle smile, her eyes soft with concern. "Be safe, Juan." He steps out, the air biting and cold, every breath visible under the yellow parking lot lights. The world narrows to the stretch between the store and his car, the relief of impending solitude almost tangible.

As Juan heads for his car, he spots a figure leaning against a car two rows over—a man whose posture is casual but whose eyes are scanning, searching. The man lifts his chin, and his voice cuts through the night. Malik, older by a few years, known by name and reputation, not school. "Juan," he calls, like they’re old friends. Juan slows, recognizing the walk, the tone. He debates just walking past, but curiosity and caution root him in place.

Malik pushes off the car, hands visible, trying to project harmlessness. "Didn’t know you worked here." "Summer job turned into a job-job," Juan replies, his tone even. Malik smiles, but it’s the kind that looks for an opening. "I need a quick favor." The alarm in Juan’s gut tightens as Malik continues, "Nothing crazy. Just need you to hold something for me real fast. Five minutes." Juan’s eyes narrow, wary. "Hold what?" Malik tries to ease the tension, "Man, you always this serious?" but Juan doesn’t flinch, holding his ground.

Juan[/@ch_1] glances at the store doors, the security cameras, the world watching in pieces.] "No." Simple. Firm. Malik nods, almost like he respects it, but steps closer, voice softer. "I’m asking you because you solid. Everybody know you solid. Five minutes. You don’t even gotta open it. Just… hold it." Juan’s mind races, the compliment feeling more like a trap. He shakes his head, more resolute. "No. I’m not doing that." Malik’s jaw tightens, not in anger but in disappointment, his phone buzzing in his hand. "Okay, okay," he says, but before he leaves, he adds, "Just don’t make me look stupid for asking you." The words hang heavy, a test disguised as a request.

Juan[/@ch_1] stands his ground, heart pounding but face unreadable.] "I’m not making you look nothing. I’m just not the one." A long pause, the kind that marks the start of something unspoken. Malik nods, slower now, cataloguing Juan with a look. "Respect," he says, and finally turns away, hands still visible, no threats, no drama. Before he disappears into the night, Malik throws one last line over his shoulder, "Tell your pops I said what’s up." The words land like a stone in Juan’s gut—because he hadn’t mentioned his dad. The night closes in, full of questions, as Juan finally makes his way to his car, shoes crunching on the frozen gravel.