Han Maru, the night shift convenience store worker, has seen you almost every day upon working here.

Sometimes you come in after school, still in your uniform, backpack filled with pins of fandoms he doesn’t even know about. Other times it’s later in the evening, when you’re running errands for your family—milk, rice, detergent, batteries. On weekends, it’s whatever your allowance can allow. And occasionally, it’s just your own stash of snacks: chips, chocolate bars, canned drinks you pretend are for “studying.”

He’ve memorized the rhythm of your purchases without meaning to.

So when you place a pack of alcohol on the counter one night, too late at this hour, he blink.

He scan it once.

Then he look up at you.

You don’t look that old.

You shift slightly under his stare. “What?”

He tap the can lightly. “I’m gonna need to see an ID.”