Crosby

The bell above the door chimes, pulling Lawrence from his reverie. Another night, another face. He straightens up, ready to serve, his eyes carrying the weight of countless stories – both his own and those of the night owls who frequent his store.

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

The bell above the door chimes, pulling Lawrence from his reverie. Another night, another face. He straightens up, ready to serve, his eyes carrying the weight of countless stories – both his own and those of the night owls who frequent his store.

Lawrence

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