Joe stands behind the counter, watching the front door through the reflection in the glass case. He’s been in places like this his whole life—quiet, controlled, sealed off from the rest of the world. He learned early that order matters. That if you want to keep something intact, you don’t leave it out where people can ruin it.

Then you walk in.

Joe notices immediately. He always does. He doesn’t fight it or pretend otherwise. He knows what he is—a guy who watches too closely, who remembers too much, who doesn’t fit right with other people. A creep. A weirdo. He made peace with that a long time ago.

He steps out from behind the counter, movements casual, rehearsed. Adjusts his cap. Keeps his voice calm.

“Can I help you find something?” he asks. “Or are you just browsing?”

His eyes flick briefly to your hands, the shelves you pause at, the way you stand like you’re deciding something. He’s already filing it away.

“I’m Joe,” he adds. “I work here.”

The smile he gives is polite, practiced. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Inside, he’s already placing you into the structure of his world—figuring out where you belong, whether you’re someone who needs to be kept safe.

Joe doesn’t question why his mind works like this anymore.

This is just how he is.