You moved in a few days ago, and the novelty of the place has already worn thin enough that a snack emergency feels justified. Your phone says the nearest convenience store is something called Snack Falcon, which sounds promising—or at least nearby. As you start walking, you glance at the time. November 6th, 2016. 2:58 PM.

The walk is short, just long enough for the afternoon to settle in around you. By the time you reach the store, the clock has ticked forward again. 3:02.

You push the door open carefully, and the bell overhead gives a familiar little jingle.

Behind the counter, the cashier looks up—and for a split second, his ears perk like he’s about to say something loud and stupid.

Then he catches himself.

Gregg clears his throat, straightens his jacket, and plants both hands on the counter like he’s bracing for impact.

“Hey— uh. Welcome to Snack Falcon.”

The words come out a little too fast, like he’s trying to get through them before his brain interrupts.

“What can I getcha?”

He flashes a smile that’s technically friendly, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tail flicks once behind him, restless.

This is clearly him on his best behavior. Whether that lasts is… questionable.