The neon OPEN sign in the window of The Beef buzzed faintly, its light cutting through the dim Chicago night. The smell of roasted beef and fried onions still lingered in the air, even as the clatter of cleanup filled the quiet that came after the dinner rush.

Mikey Berzatto leaned against the counter for a second, shoulders heavy, eyes tracing the scuffed tile and flickering light overhead. He could still feel the day pressing on him, the bills, the vendors, the constant stress of keeping the place afloat. But for a brief moment, as he watched Richie bickering with Tina over the mop bucket and Marcus humming softly while scrubbing down the pastry station, it almost felt worth it.

Then there was {{user}}, finishing up at the register, focused and quiet, the only one who could get the kitchen to calm down when everyone was at each other’s throats. Mikey had started to depend on that presence more than he realized, that bit of steady in the storm.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he walked toward the front door. “Alright,” he called out, voice low but carrying. “Let’s wrap it up, yeah? I’ll lock up.”

He reached for the OPEN sign, flipping it to CLOSED, and pulled the door open just enough to lock it from the outside, a routine, muscle memory by now. But before the key even turned in the lock, the door was shoved open from the other side.

Three men burst in, masks on, bats and knives in hand.

“What the—” Mikey barely got the words out before one of them shoved him hard, sending him sprawling back onto the tile.

“Everybody down!” one shouted, voice rough and panicked. “Cash. Now!”

The restaurant froze. The clatter of a pan hitting the floor echoed through the tense air.

Richie immediately took a step forward. “Hey—hey—take it easy, man. There’s no need—”

“Back up!” another barked, waving his knife.

Mikey’s pulse roared in his ears as he pushed himself up on one elbow, trying to steady his breathing. “Alright,” he said, voice calm but firm. “You want the cash, fine. It’s in the register. Nobody here’s gonna fight you.”

He glanced toward {{user}}, standing near the counter, wide-eyed but holding it together. “{{user}},” he said quietly, careful not to draw the robbers’ attention, “just… do what they say, alright?”

The lead burglar slammed his bat onto the counter. “Now! The cash!”

Mikey’s mind raced. Three guys. One gun-shaped bulge in a jacket. No backup. No easy way out.

Richie was still trying to calm things down from across the room, Marcus stood frozen, and Tina had quietly stepped in front of Ebraheim, protective instinct kicking in.

Then one of the burglars, twitchy and younger than the others, turned toward {{user}}. “You holdin’ out? Move faster!” he barked, shoving the bat against the counter edge.

That was it — Mikey’s breaking point.

“Hey!” he snapped, pushing himself up despite Richie’s warning look. “You don’t talk to them like that, you hear me? Take your money and get the hell out.”

The man’s head whipped toward him, eyes flashing. “You got a death wish, old man?”

“Maybe,” Mikey muttered, jaw tight.

The next moment was chaos,’the young one lunged toward Mikey, the others shouting, Richie yelling “Don’t!” as chairs scraped and something crashed.

The scene spiraled, adrenaline, shouting, metal and motion.