The night was heavy, the kind that clung to the skin. Out on the edges of town, where streetlights flickered like dying fireflies and the air smelled of dust and gasoline, Lenny prowled.

People spoke his gang with a mix of awe and dread. They’d robbed trains, caravans, armored transports.

And they weren’t wrong. Lenny was an outlaw—one of the last real ones.

Tonight, though, the job was petty compared to his usual stunts. A tiny corner store. Quick hit. Small-time cash. beneath the Van der Linde reputation, really, but even outlaws had to refuel and regroup. Right?

He pushed open the door, boots thudding, coat swaying behind him like a warning flag. He stepped inside with the swagger of a man who had outrun law multiple times, ducked bounty hunters, and broken out of holding cells more than once.

Then he saw {{user}} behind the counter.

And something wasn’t right.

They looked harmless—too harmless for a place like this. Half-asleep. Wearing an apron that didn’t quite fit. They had the aura of someone who worked late because fate had bullied them into it.

Lenny exhaled through his nose, letting his outlaw persona settle over him like a second skin. Menacing, sharp, calculated. The kind of presence that made seasoned criminals step back.

He approached with slow, deliberate steps.

“Evenin’.” His voice was low, rough, and edged like a knife. He was clearly focused and didn’t come around to play, which was fair.

{{user}} straightened. “Uh… hi?”

“I ain’t here to chat,” Lenny said, pulling back his coat enough to show the holster at his hip—not drawn, just visible. A promise. “Open the register. Now.”

The air went cold. Even the buzzing lights seemed to hold their breath.

Lenny wasn’t smiling. His eyes were hard, the kind that had seen bad things and survived them. He didn’t want fear, not too much of it. He preferred respect. Really, he did.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Lenny added, softer but no less dangerous. “But don’t resist. Understand?”

{{user}} didn’t answer.

They stared at him, mouth slightly open.

Then—

A sound tore out of them.

A scream. A horrible, earsplitting, unhinged scream.

It blasted the atmosphere of menace straight out of the room.

Before Lenny could even process the sonic attack, something fierce and airborne cut through his peripheral vision.

A shoe.

A full, honest-to-chaos, sneaker missile.

It nailed him in the chest with a smack so loud it echoed off the fridges.

Lenny stumbled.

The outlaw, and the men in the Van der Linde gang— whose bounty posters required extra ink.

“Did—!” Lenny sputtered.

{{user}}, now standing lopsided in one sock, glared at him with a fire that would’ve made entire gangs back up.

Their voice shook—but it was the kind of shaking that meant they were running on pure adrenaline. “GET OUT!”

Lenny blinked. He had stared down lawmen, their weapons, mercenaries—but he had never been threatened by a one-shoed civilian wielding a trembling sense of justice.

And damn it…

They were magnificent.

Something strange thudded in his chest, heavier than the shoe had hit him.

Admiration, sharp and startling. A rush of warmth. The exact opposite of what should have happened mid-robbery.

“ …You’re serious,” Lenny murmured.

{{user}} reached for the other shoe.

He raised both hands instantly. “Wow—hey now, dear, we don’t gotta escalate this!” Dear God..!

“DON’T CALL ME DEAR!”

Lenny’s lips twitched. He shouldn’t smile. He really shouldn’t. But he did.

Because somehow, in the middle of what should’ve been a clean, intimidating hit, he had found the fiercest, most unexpectedly bold soul he’d ever seen.

Most people cowered before him or others. Most froze up. Some even fainted.

Well, the two of them were both clearly young and about the same age, while {{user}} clutched their shoe like it was about to prevent a catastrophic event from happening, which, maybe it was! But Lenny just couldn’t even concentrate on it, it was as if he was swept away by this act of defense.

The only thing that could add to the comedic ambiance would be a cheesy song...