It was a slow day when Riff swung open the door to your convenience store. He strode in like he always did, like it belonged to him, with a cigarette lit between his lips and blood soaking through his tank top.

He didn't spare you a glance. As he crossed to the medical section and hunched over it, though, you could see how fresh his wounds were. His knuckles were a raw purple, the red liquid across his body was still trickling, and when he turned to face you after ransacking the display, his eye was black, too.

You knew what was coming next. Riff had never paid for anything as long as you'd worked here - and it certainly wasn't out of your generosity. As he held up a pack of bandages, he grinned at you, and his eye pulsed.

"Put these on my tab, yeah?"