The gas station was dead quiet. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, their hum louder than anything else. You’d been leaning on the counter, chin in hand, watching the clock drag. The last customer had come through almost an hour ago, just a guy grabbing cigarettes and walking out without a word.

Outside, the lot was empty, nothing but the glow of the pumps and the faint drone of the highway a ways off.

Then headlights cut across the glass. A car slowed, gravel crunching as it pulled up by the door. You sat up straighter without thinking.

The door slammed open, the bell above it jangling too hard. Heavy boots hit the tile. A man came in fast, rifle already raised, barrel pointed square at your chest.

“Don’t fucking move.”

His voice carried a rough edge, ragged from breathing hard. He shut the door with a shove of his boot, eyes never leaving you.

“Pop the register. Right now.”

The rifle didn’t waver. He stepped closer, close enough to smell the sweat and faint engine oil on him.

“All of it. Every bill. Bag it.”

He pulled a crumpled plastic sack from his pocket, tossed it across the counter so it slid right in front of you.

“You try anything—anything—and you’re done.”

The drawer sat open, the bag waiting. His voice dropped, sharp and quick:

“Hurry the fuck up.”