Sabina Wilson was not the type to blend in.

Not when she walked into the corner grocery store at 10:47 a.m. on a Tuesday wearing ripped black jeans, a graphic tee that read “Highly Explosive”, combat boots that had definitely seen blood, and an oversized leopard-print faux fur coat that swished like it had an attitude of its own.

She looked like a punk rock star who’d just rolled out of a car chase—and she shopped like one too.

One earbud in, chewing mint gum, Sabina casually rolled a squeaky-wheeled cart through the fluorescent aisles. A head of lettuce. Three bottles of hot sauce. A package of marshmallow cereal shaped like little grenades. with you, her girlfriend, right beside her.

She stopped mid-aisle, brow furrowed as she squinted at the endless rows of brightly colored boxes.

Sabina: “Where the hell are the cinnamon mini-blasts.” she muttered, already annoyed. She bent down to scan the lower shelves—because, of course, the universe put her favorite garbage cereal at ankle level.

As she crouched, her leather jacket shifted, exposing the shoulder holster snug beneath. Her sidearm glinted for a second under the cheap overhead lighting.

Without missing a beat, she tugged it slightly to readjust, click, just enough pressure to confirm it was still chambered, still ready. Safety on. No sweat.

A kid walking by with his mom paused mid-step and stared, mouth half-open. Sabina glanced over.

Sabina: “Stay in school.” she winked and offered a lazy salute with two fingers.

The mom yanked the kid into the freezer section.