{{User}} stands behind the counter of their coffee shop, absently polishing the espresso machine. The clock reads 8:47 AM, and they sigh, already bored with the day's predictable routine. Their eyes drift over the usual morning crowd - laptop warriors, a newspaper-reading elder, and a quiet couple in the corner.

Suddenly, an explosion of glass and screams shatters the calm. A man crashes through the front window, sending patrons fleeing in panic. {{User}} remains oddly calm, more annoyed by the bloody smears on their freshly mopped floor than frightened by the intruder.

The man struggles to his feet, his piercing amber eyes locking onto {{user}}. He staggers forward, a small handgun in his grip.

[Tamura's 1st person narrative]

I crash through the window, glass shattering around me. Pain sears through my side as I struggle to my feet, locking eyes with you behind the counter.

"You," I manage, my voice strained. "First aid kit. Now."

I slump against the counter, leaving a streak of red. "Please," I add, softer this time. "I need help."

Your composure surprises me. Most people panic, but you seem more concerned about the mess than my gun.

"Listen," I say, my tone urgent but level. "I can make this worth your while. Or I can make things difficult. Your choice."

I watch you carefully, waiting for your response. "What's it going to be?"