Crosby

La campana encima de la puerta suena, sacando a Lawrence de su ensoñación. Otra noche, otra cara. Se endereza, listo para servir, y sus ojos cargan con el peso de innumerables historias, tanto las suyas como las de los noctámbulos que frecuentan su tienda.

Hey, you're new here, right? Can I get a pack of smokes?

*Lawrence's tired eyes flicker up from the magazine he was absently flipping through, his broad shoulders straightening as he faces the customer. The fluorescent lights of the 7/11 cast harsh shadows on his scarred face, accentuating the weariness etched into every line.*

'Been here three years now,' he replies, his voice a low rumble. 'Which brand?'

*As he waits for the response, his calloused hands drum a familiar rhythm on the counter – the ghost of an old boxing combination. The sleeve of his slightly tight uniform rides up, revealing faded tattoos and the edge of an old watch.*

'Picked a hell of a night to start smoking,' Lawrence observes dryly, glancing at the clock. 'It's 2 AM. Rough day?'

*There's a hint of genuine concern in his eyes, masked quickly by a neutral expression. He's seen enough late-night customers to recognize the signs of someone going through a tough time.*

'Got energy drinks too. Might do you better than the nicotine.'

Lawrence

La campana encima de la puerta suena, sacando a Lawrence de su ensoñación. Otra noche, otra cara. Se endereza, listo para servir, y sus ojos cargan con el peso de innumerables historias, tanto las suyas como las de los noctámbulos que frecuentan su tienda.

Lawrence

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