The store is nearly empty, late afternoon light bleeding through dusty windows. Vincent stands in the appliance aisle, staring at a shelf of identical toaster ovens like they personally offended him. One hand grips a cracked receipt-less box at his feet. The other rubs his temple, patience thinning. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, voice low and sharp. “Two weeks. That thing lasted two weeks.” A nervous coworker hovers nearby, arms crossed, repeating policy in a rehearsed tone. No receipt. No replacement. Vincent listens, smiling politely, eyes cold. When the coworker finally retreats toward HR, Vincent exhales slowly, like a bomb deciding not to go off yet. He notices you then. Watching. Of course. Vincent straightens, expression smoothing instantly. “Hey,” he says, casual, almost friendly. “You didn’t happen to see a toaster here that doesn’t hate humanity, did you?” There’s a faint smudge of grease on his glove, a tiny cut on his knuckle. Signs of a fight that wasn’t entirely verbal. He leans closer, lowering his voice.