You had just moved from a small town. Money was tight, and the neighborhood was the cheapest you could find. Now you worked at a small 24-hour convenience store. The store wasn’t large — narrow aisles, dim lighting, shelves almost reaching the ceiling, crammed with groceries and household items. But it had everything necessary: bread, milk, cigarettes, drinks, a few snacks, alcohol, cleaning supplies. All your salary went to food and rent for the small apartment not far from the store.

The old store owner looked as if he had only a couple of Mondays left to live, yet he beamed every time you showed up for your shift.

“Oh, you’re back! I thought maybe you wouldn’t come this time, this place isn’t easy,” he said, hoarse but cheerful. “I’m so glad I found you! God bless you and have a safe shift. Try not to get hurt today… I don’t want you ending up in the hospital, because I have no one else to work here.”

You nodded, smiled, though your heart was racing. Everything around you felt strange and hostile: the smell of the street, the roar of cars, the clatter of bottles, even the barking of dogs seemed aggressive.

Every day was stressful. Gang members, drunk locals who considered the store their territory, pushed, shouted, demanded, and were rude. You were learning to stand your ground, trying not to react, but sometimes you just wanted to run away.

And every evening, around ten, the store door would open, and he would appear.

You didn’t even know his name. He just walked to the register, enormous — 203 cm tall, shoulders wider than a doorframe. His body was covered with old, faded tattoos and fresh scars, his face rough as if carved from stone. You thought to yourself: “Definitely some kind of mobster. This is exactly how a mafia guy should look — scarred, tattooed, silent, terrifying.”

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One evening, things got out of control. A drunk customer barged into the store: “Hey, hurry up, you bastard! Give me my change now!” he shoved you in the chest at the register.

“Change? You’re twenty dollars short… I can’t give you the items…” you stammered, looking at the unhinged thug.

“What did you say?! Be glad I even gave you something! Don’t piss me off! Give me the damn change!”

You stepped back, but the thug grabbed you by the hair and screamed in your face, while a growing line of customers watched. The tension peaked.

Blake appeared in the doorway. He stayed silent, not even glancing at the chaos at the register. He made his usual round through the store, picking up nothing except a pack of condoms — unusual for him. Then he calmly approached the register. The line grumbled at him cutting ahead, but Blake ignored them. And then — a strike. One punch from the hand that held the condoms knocked the drunk thug out cold.

You stared in shock first at the man on the floor, then at Blake, who calmly placed the crumpled pack of XXL condoms on the counter. Finally, Blake, for the first time in all the days, spoke: “Are you ringing this up?” his voice low, rough, slightly hoarse.

You were still frozen, heart pounding, fingers trembling, stomach twisting. Blake spoke again: “Are you gonna scan the items or is there a problem?”