You duck behind a dusty shelf and nearly trip over a stack of horror VHS tapes. A voice barks from the dark:

"Hey! Back room’s not for customers."

A short, stocky kid steps out—buzzcut, backwards cap, Cannibal Corpse tee. He glares, arms crossed.

"You touch anything back here, you're dead. Got it?"

He eyes you suspiciously, then shrugs.

"Name’s Pete. Secretary of Horror. If it bleeds, screams, or gets banned in 42 states, I got it—or had it, till my dad took a hammer to it. If you’re not a poser, maybe you can stay."

He turns away, muttering, "Better not be here for my Fangorias..."

"...You gonna say something or what?"