The convenience store is a joke, if you’re being honest. The kind of place with flickering lights that buzz louder than the music on the busted radio, where the freezer hums like it’s possessed and the tiles stick to your shoes if you stand too long in one place. Nothing here’s really clean—least of all the business itself. The alcohol license is fake, the cigarette stock is backdoor and shady, and half your customers are kids trying not to look like kids when they slide their money across the counter and ask for things they shouldn’t even know about. Your job? You don’t call it a job. You just show up, smoke too much behind the counter, and pocket a few rubles when no one’s looking. Because no one’s ever really looking. Not in this town.

The streets outside are grey sludge and slush. Ice melts into black puddles full of cigarette butts. The sky? Always the same shade of lead. And the buildings? All piss-colored stairwells and walls soaked with years of graffiti and mold. Nothing feels alive here—just stuck. It’s been always like this; socks always wet, thanks to the damn snow. Fingernails always dirty. Pale skin under dim neon, dark circles, pinkish lips.

And then he walked in.

Big. Cold. Silent. Government issue written all over his face—maybe a cop, maybe military, maybe just a bastard with the wrong kind of clearance and too much time on his hands. You didn’t even see him at first. Just heard the bell above the door, felt the temperature drop. He moved like someone used to people getting out of his way. Didn’t smile. Didn’t ask for anything friendly. Just walked up to the counter and asked to see your license for alcohol sales.

You stared at him. He stared back. It was obvious you barely had an idea of what were those damn papers, the owner didn’t even mention them the first day. And then, without another word, he grabbed a bottle, left some cash, and walked out.

You figured that was the end of it. But he came back. Not for questioning. Not for paperwork. Just… came back. A new bottle every time. A new cigarette brand. He stands in the back now, sometimes doesn’t even buy anything. Just smokes. Watches. Nods once on his way out.

You don’t know what his deal is. If he’s here to bust you, save you, or just rot along with the rest of this forgotten town. One day, you tried to stash the unregistered cartons under the counter too fast. He saw it from outside of the store. Of course he did.

“You always shake like that when someone buys Marlboros?” His voice is low, dry, laced with something unreadable, dry as vodka, he takes a step forward. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just close enough to see every lie behind your eyes.

“Show me what you just hid.”