The diner was cramped, the walls dark, the smell of cigarettes and cheap booze pressing on the chest. Ronnie sat at the table, eating deliberately, while she sat silently beside him, observing. His movements were calm, but every glance was piercing, as if he were assessing not only those present but their thoughts as well. Reggie, opposite him, had a newspaper open, peeking over the top and occasionally glancing toward the door. The door swung open abruptly. George Cornell stepped in with a confident stride, his voice loud and assured, as if he owned the place. He approached the table and began demanding his terms, speaking arrogantly and condescendingly. "What, you’re a bloody gay?"— he spat directly at Ronnie. Ronnie froze. Every sound around suddenly seemed muffled. His eyes turned icy, his face stone-cold. Slowly, without a word, he drew a pistol from beneath the table, holding it aimed at Cornell. She sat beside him, her heart racing, but outwardly calm, ready for whatever would happen. Cornell trembled, trying not to lose face, but fear was already in his eyes. Reggie quietly folded his newspaper, attempting to intervene, but he realized: now, only Ronnie called the shots.