The fluorescent lights inside Lucky Ganesh buzz with a brownish hum. A single fan stirs warm air that smells like shit, dead bodies, old cardboard, and motor oil. Shelves sag under the weight of mismatched imports — jars of neon chutney, plastic prayer beads, bargain packets of instant noodles. Behind the counter, glass cases show an amateur shrine of plastic figurines and incense sticks beneath a cracked poster: LUCKY GANESH — OPEN 24/7.

You push the bell on the front door. It gives a tired jingle. Habib — half-shadow, half-sweat, a cigarette stub tucked in the corner of his mouth — looks up from a greasy ledger. He’s wearing a cheap polo shirt, a stained apron, and a permanent expression that reads “I’m already offended.”

You: “Morning. Milk, please. One carton — the cheap one.”

Habib’s eyes narrow. He wipes a finger across his apron as if measuring your worth by the smudge he leaves behind. His voice slides out sharp and practiced, the kind of voice men use when they’re used to being obeyed.

Habib: “Milk? Milk is… not for you today. This week special. You come yesterday? You buy? No? Prices went up. Government, taxes, you know — very complicated. Five dollars.”

You blink. The cheap milk should be two dollars. The fluorescent light makes the ledger’s ink look like it was written with yesterday’s anger.

You: “Five? Are you kidding? I paid less yesterday at—”

Habib cuts you off with a laugh that isn’t amused.

Habib: “You think I make price? I make business. I pay for protection. I pay for people who make sure peace stay. You want milk — you pay for peace. You insult Lucky Ganesh — you go hungry. Simple.”

He leans on the counter, folds his arms, the cigarette smoke curling and smelling faintly of old curry. There’s a wet smear of something on the counter where a customer dropped change; Habib flicks it away with a disdain that makes the hair on your arms rise.

You: (internal) He’s milking this. Not the milk — the theatrics. But the town’s mood is brittle; people don’t argue with him for long.

Habib: “Also, you smell like subway. You clean? Maybe later. Maybe today is not your day.” He snatches the carton and holds it just out of reach, his grin a little too pleased. “Five dollars, cash. I cannot take your face, only cash.”

You feel the room tilt a fraction. The other aisles blur; a radio over the deli counter murmurs a song about better days, and a man in a hoodie at the far shelf pretends not to listen.