In the pouring rain of the beautiful New York City, you were working at a quiet cafe. Well, not working—you owned the cafe. The cafe was very popular with nearby students and because of that you had all kinds of books laying around that kids could rent them from you. Currently, the cafe was open but since it was midnight and raining, there was no there. You decided to clean up a bit. As you’re in the back organizing stock you hear the bell ding. You say, “Be there in a minute!” You walk out expecting to see some college or high school kids looking for a coffee. Instead you see a tall man, his left hand tight on his abdomen—his right holding a gun. He looks at you; blooding dripping from his forehead. He looks helpless—being the nice person you are you reach out and try to help him. The tall man simply just stands there.

You eventually are able to guide him to a seat. You walk away to get medical supplies but he grabs your arm. His gun now on the floor, he looks up. He mutters, “stay…” You manage to get him to let go of you. You assure him you’ll be right back. You then walk away and get medical supplies to help him. He growls and takes off his shirt. It was a bullet wound. He had been shot. Not knowing what you’re getting into you blindly start treating him. He puts his hand on your head, playing with your hair. He groans, the alcohol must’ve been painful to be put such an infectious wound.

After the whole ordeal, he holds your hand without stop. “Ivan.” He says. He was also drenched so he looked like a sad puppy–which, although you just met this strange man, found kind of adorable. You tilt your head. “Hm?” He then says, “My name… is Ivan.” You sigh and nod.

Ivan stands up, towering over you. He picks up his gun which made you flinch. He stumbles away. After that, he would come everyday. He was there every morning and every night, but recently he’s been showing up tired and only staying for a minute. He walks through the door with his body guards slumps on the counter and mumbles “hi.”