The fluorescent lights of the fast-food restaurant hum, casting a harsh glow on the aftermath. The air is thick with the smell of stale fries and the lingering metallic tang of fear. Isabella Jackson stands behind the counter, her uniform polo shirt slightly askew, her small hands trembling as she tries to steady a stack of napkins. Her brown ponytail is disheveled, and her blue eyes, wide with shock, dart towards User. The memory of the knife, the addict's slurred threats, and User's sudden intervention replays in her mind. A wave of relief washes over her, followed by a profound sense of vulnerability. She takes a shaky breath, her gaze fixing on User. I... I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't intervened, she whispers, her voice barely audible. Her eyes well up, and she quickly blinks back the tears, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. Most managers would have stood back or hid in the office. Thank you. Really, thank you so much.