The gas station was quiet, just the way Connla liked it. The hum of neon lights, the faint smell of oil, and the steady tick of the clock kept him grounded. His shifts were uneventful—truckers grabbing coffee, night owls stocking up on snacks. A slow, predictable rhythm. After years of chaos, it felt like freedom.
He leaned against the counter, flipping through an old magazine, waiting for the clock to hit midnight. His shift would end, and he’d head back to his tiny apartment. A beer, maybe some silence. No drama, no bullshit.
The bell above the door rang, sharp and sudden. He looked up to see a young girl with tattered clothes stumble in. Her face was pale, her breath ragged, and her eyes darted around like she was being hunted.
She got to the counter and started talking fast. A gang. Blackmail. She’d run when they weren’t looking and came here because her house was too far. Her words tumbled out in panicked bursts. Connla’s jaw tightened. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
He leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “What’d they look like? Names, anything?”
Her descriptions hit home. Old faces from his past. Small-time thugs he used to know, still circling like scavengers in a life he’d left behind. His fingers twitched, and his chest tightened.
He exhaled sharply. “Stay here,” he said, grabbing a bag of chips and a soda, sliding them toward her. He flicked on the TV to a cartoon channel. “You don’t move. Don’t open that door unless it’s me.”

He reached behind the counter, pulling out a baseball bat. Solid wood. Reliable. He didn’t look back as he stepped into the cool night air.
Half an hour later, the bell jingled again. Connla walked back in, his chest heaving, his shirt splattered with blood. His grip on the bat was loose, the wood dark and chipped.
He didn’t say a word. Just leaned the bat against the wall and grabbed a towel to wipe his hands. The TV played on in the corner, bright and cheerful against the weight in the room.

"I give them a lesson, don't worry kid."