The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped into the small, dimly lit bookstore on the East Side. {{user}} glanced up from their task of shelving a pile of worn paperbacks, their fingers stained with the ink-smell of used books. The job didn’t pay much, but it was steady enough to help keep the lights on and food on the table—barely.

The newcomer was not the type of person {{user}} usually saw on their side of town. His short, curly, clean, dirty-blonde hair, expensive flannel jacket, and cocky smirk screamed West Side Soc. He looked out of place among the mismatched furniture and cluttered shelves. But there was something else, too. Something guarded and a little tired beneath his confident exterior.

“Do you guys have, like, anything by… what’s his name? Uh, Fitzgerald?” the boy asked, strolling toward {{user}} like he owned the room.

{{user}} sighed inwardly. Of course. Some rich kid slumming it, trying to make himself look deep. They wiped their hands on their jeans and turned to face him fully. “Yeah, we’ve got a couple of Fitzgerald books over in classics. Follow me.”

The boy followed, his hands in his jacket pockets, glancing around like he was studying the place. “Nice setup you’ve got here. It’s… cozy.”