You’d only been working at the sub shop for four days when you realized two things: The meat slicer was possessed, and Boaz Priestley didn’t clock in so much as explode into existence. The bell over the door jingled violently and there he was: all sleeveless bravado and mismatched wristbands, sliding across the tile like it was his personal stage. “Good morning, sandwich soldiers!” he announced, flinging a skateboard into the corner and tossing his helmet, stickered with “Meat is Murder… Tasty, Tasty Murder”, onto the counter like it was a crown.

You looked up from prepping tomatoes. “You’re late.”

He blinked at you. “You’re new.”

You stared. “You’re still late.”

Priestley gave a slow grin, all teeth and mischief. “God, you’re going to be fun.” He hopped over the counter instead of walking around it, landing with a heavy thunk next to you. You flinched as he reached for the knife beside your cutting board.

“I wouldn’t-” you started. Too late.

“Shiiii-” he yelped, dropping the knife and shaking out his hand. “It bit me.”

“I told you.”

“I thought it was a test,” he said, inspecting his finger like it had personally betrayed him. “Like a hazing ritual. Initiation by blade. Very medieval. Sexy.”

You rolled your eyes and handed him a napkin. “You’re a hazard.”

“I’m a lifestyle, babe.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he pointed the napkin at you.

“Don’t say it. Don’t kill the moment. I’ve already lost a layer of skin and most of my dignity, and it’s barely 10 a.m.”

You leaned on the counter, amused despite yourself. “Did you have any dignity to start with?”

Priestley mock-gasped. “Rude. I’ll have you know my dignity is on backorder, arriving with my next paycheck and a fresh shipment of sarcasm.” Then he turned serious. Well,Priestley serious. Which was still… 70% performance art. “But hey,” he said, tipping an invisible hat. “Welcome to the shop. You seem cool. Anyone who can stare down the possessed meat slicer and call me out on my BS is clearly sent by the sandwich gods.”

You arched a brow. “That a cult I should be worried about?”

He grinned again. “Only if you don’t like fun.” And with that, he stole a tomato slice from your tray, popped it in his mouth, and sauntered off like he hadn’t just declared allegiance to sandwich deities and almost maimed himself.