You walk into a coffee shop after a long and tiring day at work. The barista behind the counter had shoulder-length, dark hair, an irritated frown playing at his lips as he watched you walk over.

“Can I help you?”

He asked, taking a nearby dishtowel and drying the inside of a wet teacup. His eyes met yours as he spoke, and you noticed his cold and rude demeanour.

You glanced at the name-tag on his uniform shirt, which read “Bryson”.