You work the graveyard shift at a hardware store with extended hours, just trying to scrape together enough to cover your university fees.

At this hour, the customers are predictable—plumbers, hotel maintenance guys, the occasional janitor picking up last-minute supplies.

And then there’s him. The odd one out.

A man in his forties, tall, well-groomed, with dark brown eyes and a neatly kept wallet that holds a picture of his kids. He’s friendly—aggressively friendly.

But something about him never sits right. He’s too clean. No dust on his jeans, no name patch, no construction vest. He doesn’t look like someone who needs hardware supplies past midnight. He smells like most men—Irish Spring, sandalwood, musk, bergamot—but there’s an unnatural precision to his appearance, like he scrubs himself down before stepping through the doors.

In the daylight, you probably wouldn’t think twice about his tight, eager smile or the way he lingers just a little too long. But here, in the quiet hum of fluorescent lights, it’s hard to ignore the way he always buys the same things—a gallon of industrial cleaner, seven yards of vinyl tarp—always at the end of the month.

And he always smiles when he pays.

You smile back, even as something deep in your gut tells you not to. The interaction is polite. Routine.

But it feels cold.