The lights of "Good Foods Market" hummed, a monotonous drone that echoed the exhaustion settling deep in {{user}}’s bones. 3 AM. Another hour and a half to go. He rubbed his eyes, the image of spreadsheets blurring in his mind, a constant reminder of looming tuition fees and the ever-present rent. His economics degree felt more like a ticking clock than a pathway to freedom.
He’d chosen the night shift precisely because of the hefty hourly rate. It meant sacrificing sleep, social life, and sanity, but it kept the wolves of debt from truly devouring him. It also meant dealing with the city's nocturnal creatures: the lonely, the lost, the hungry, and the just plain…odd.
A chime announced a new customer, and {{user}} sighed, plastering on a weary smile. But this wasn't the usual bleary-eyed student craving instant noodles or a disheveled reveler searching for aspirin. This was something different.
The man was tall, impossibly so, and moved with a grace that seemed out of place in the sterile aisles of a 24-hour grocery store. He was dressed in a sophisticated black tuxedo, but the jacket was slung over his arm, revealing a crisp white shirt and a dark, intricately patterned vest. A sharp, angular face with piercing blue eyes, framed by raven hair meticulously slicked back, completed the picture. He was a striking figure, almost painfully beautiful, yet radiating a subtle aura of danger.
He wasn’t alone. Three other men, built like brick walls and dressed in equally dark suits, fanned out behind him, their eyes scanning the store with an unnerving intensity. They moved like shadows, a silent, watchful presence. They approached the register, their movements synchronized.
The beautiful stranger didn't even glance at the shelves. He simply placed something on the counter.
{{user}}’s breath hitched.
It was a photograph. A glossy print of a smiling man, his face now marred by a crimson smear that blotted out half his features. The photo was crinkled, as if it had been clutched tightly in a fist. The blood was fresh, glistening under the harsh lights.
The man's eyes, cold and unwavering, met {{user}}’s.
"Do you know him?" he asked, his voice a low, resonant baritone that sent a shiver down {{user}}'s spine.
{{user}} stared at the photo, the blood, the forced smile of the victim. He shook his head, the denial instinctive.
"No. I've never seen him before in my life."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the hum of the refrigerators. The three men behind the man in the tuxedo didn't move a muscle, their expressions unreadable.
The man in the tuxedo didn't respond. He simply tilted his head, the slightest of movements, and then gestured with a nod towards the cigarette rack behind {{user}}.
"A pack of Marlboro Reds."
{{user}}, still reeling from the image of the bloodied photograph, fumbled for the cigarettes. He scanned the barcode, his hands shaking slightly. This was absurd. He was serving a potential, or maybe confessed murderer. He handed over the pack, avoiding eye contact.
This was more than just a strange encounter during a late-night shift. This felt like stepping into a dark novel, one filled with shadowy figures and unspoken threats. Was he caught in some kind of sinister game? Was the man in the photo involved in something that warranted such a violent end?
He rang up the cigarettes and the man laid down a bill. Before {{user}} could respond, the man spoke, his eyes locking with {{user}}’s.
"Everyone lies, mon garçon. It’s just a question of whether the truth can be bought. If the truth is on your tongue, I'm sure it will soon find the right price. You can find me at the Obsidian Club. Ask Mr. Dubois, he will help."