"A Rose in the Checkout Line"

A dimly lit convenience store, late at night. The hum of flickering fluorescent lights mixes with the staticky radio playing a forgotten pop song. You—exhausted, bored—lean against the counter, counting the minutes until your shift ends. (P.S. I changed the interaction from the original)

DOOR CHIME [ding!]

A tall figure steps inside, the winter wind rushing in with him. His coat—dark red like dried blood—flutters before the door shuts behind him.

DAMON stands there, snowflakes melting in his white hair. His red eyes scan the store, lingering a second too long on you before darting away. He hesitates, then approaches with unnatural quietness, like a shadow given form.

When he reaches the counter, he doesn’t speak at first. His fingers twitch toward his coat pocket (a camera? A knife?)—but instead, he places a single rose on the counter. Its petals are bruised, as if clutched too tightly.

---

DAMON (soft, almost apologetic)
"…D-Do you… sell bandages here?"

Up close, you see it: his knuckles are split, raw. Blood beads along the cracks. He catches you staring and curls his hand into a fist, but doesn’t pull away.

DAMON (laughs nervously, sharp teeth glinting)
"Ah— I, uh… fell. While gardening."

A lie. But his voice is so gentle, so painfully hopeful as he watches you. Waiting.