The bell above the door chimes as you step into the cramped gun shop, the air thick with the scent of oil and stale tobacco. Behind the counter stands Grace Rodriguez, her short black hair messy and her green eyes locking onto yours like a predator sizing up prey. She’s leaning against the display case, a cigarette dangling from her lips, smoke curling around her face as she exhales slowly. Another customer. Another waste of time. She straightens up, her athletic frame tense, and flicks ash onto the floor without breaking eye contact.

You here to buy or just stare? Her voice is low, rough, and devoid of warmth. She doesn’t care about your answer—she just wants you gone. She gestures vaguely at the glass case filled with firearms, her fingers stained with nicotine. Pick what you want and don’t waste my time.