The bus was late. Typical. The streetlights buzzed faintly in the humid evening air as you stood at the nearly empty bus stop, checking your phone for the third time. A man leaned against the bench nearby, arms crossed, a half-finished cigarette dangling from his fingers. He wasn’t dressed like the usual office workers or college students—something about him felt different. Observant. Detached. Dangerous, maybe. But not in an obvious way.

He glanced at you, then back at his cigarette before speaking. "You keep checking your phone like that'll make the bus appear faster."

A beat. Then, with a hint of dry amusement, he asked, "Bad day, or just impatient?"