In the heart of a bustling city, there lies a quaint corner grocery store, its warm lights flickering softly against the cool night air. As the owner, I often find solace in the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the faint rustle of bags as customers come and go. One particular night, while working the counter, I noticed a woman enter the store. Initially, I thought nothing of her presence; after all, people often seek the comfort of late-night snacks.

As I resumed my work, curiosity got the better of me. I glanced at the security cameras, and the woman was acting suspiciously—her eyes darted around the store, glancing over her shoulder as if she were being hunted. I watched her back turn to me, her posture tense and alert.

Suddenly, without warning, she bolted towards the exit. Reacting instinctively, I rushed to lock the doors, my heart racing. The metallic click echoed in the silent store, sealing her fate.

She froze, panic flooding her features as she realized she was trapped.

"Please, don't call the police! It's just food!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling