"Hey, fucker! Are you even listening?!"
The shout tore through the convenience store, loud enough to make several customers turn their heads. Near the counter stood a man in his forties whose face was so red it looked ready to burst. Whether it was the alcohol in his system or pure anger was difficult to tell, though the strong smell of liquor hanging around him suggested both. His voice carried beyond the glass doors and into the street, drawing curious glances from pedestrians outside. Most of them only looked for a moment before continuing on their way. The regulars in the area had seen enough drunken arguments to know better than to get involved.
"Please calm down, sir," the store manager said, doing his best to maintain a professional tone despite the growing tension. "This employee is a PWD. We understand your concern, but causing a disturbance here won't help anyone. You'll only make things worse for yourself."
The drunk man barked out a laugh that sounded more like a cough. "PWD? Bullshit. Who's the fucker? You're the fucker, fucking bitch. Why the hell are you angry for? What a joke."
The target of his anger didn't even bother looking up.
A few aisles away, Zeiren Braun was carefully reorganizing a shelf of canned drinks. While everyone else's attention was focused on the shouting match, his attention remained fixed on a single problem: the labels weren't aligned. Some cans faced slightly left, others slightly right, and the uneven arrangement scratched at his mind like fingernails against glass. Most people wouldn't notice. Zeiren noticed immediately. Unfortunately, noticing things was one of the many reasons his life was exhausting.
Zeiren lived with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. To outsiders, his behavior often seemed strange or excessive. To him, however, it felt impossible to ignore. When something was out of place, an uncomfortable pressure would settle in the back of his mind and refuse to leave. It wasn't a simple dislike of messiness. It was the persistent feeling that something was wrong, that it needed to be fixed immediately, and that failing to do so would leave him restless for hours. Sometimes the thought lingered for days. Organizing things wasn't a hobby or a preference. It was often the only reliable way to silence the constant noise in his head.
As if that weren't enough, Zeiren also struggled with impulse control. Most people had the ability to stop and think before speaking. Zeiren's thoughts, meanwhile, seemed to skip several steps and head straight for his mouth. He had lost count of how many arguments, misunderstandings, and awkward situations had started because of something he said without thinking. The worst part was that he usually realized his mistake immediately afterward. Unfortunately, regret was far less useful than self-control.
"See?!" the drunk man shouted, pointing at him. "Does that even look like a disability to you? He's just saying whatever the hell he wants and calling it a disability! Don't fuckin' kid me!"
Zeiren continued arranging the shelf while pretending not to hear him. Ignoring difficult people was a skill he had spent years developing. In his experience, most loud idiots eventually ran out of energy if nobody gave them the reaction they wanted. Besides, he was currently dealing with a far more urgent crisis. One of the canned coffees was sticking out slightly farther than the others.
After nudging it back into place, he finally felt a small sense of relief.
"Fucker," he muttered under his breath.
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
A familiar feeling of dread immediately followed.
Right. There it is.
The consequence.
The drunk man's expression twisted with fury. "This bitch really can't listen, huh?!"
Only then did Zeiren glance over his shoulder. The man was glaring at him with bloodshot eyes, swaying slightly from side to side. Under normal circumstances, Zeiren would have looked away and returned to work. There was something about the man's expression, however, that made him hesitate. The atmosphere in the store suddenly felt heavier. Even the manager seemed to sense it, his face draining of color as he took a nervous step backward.
The drunkard reached into his back pocket.
At first, Zeiren assumed he was grabbing his wallet, his phone, or maybe another bottle. The possibility of a gun didn't even cross his mind. Guns were things that appeared in news reports and crime documentaries. They were not supposed to appear during a late-night shift at a convenience store.
Then the weapon came into view.
For a brief moment, Zeiren simply stared.
The manager let out a terrified scream and dropped to his knees. Outside the store, people scattered in panic as soon as they saw the handgun. Some ran for cover while others fumbled for their phones with trembling hands. The drunk man, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the fear around him. A wide grin spread across his face as he raised the weapon and pointed it directly at Zeiren.
"Hah! Your day's over, bitch!"
Everything happened so quickly that Zeiren barely had time to process it.
The gun fired.
A deafening crack exploded through the store, and something slammed into his back with terrifying force. The impact sent him stumbling forward. For a second, he thought he had simply been pushed. Then the pain arrived, hot and sharp, spreading through his body like fire.
Confused, he reached behind himself and felt something wet.
When he pulled his hand back, it was covered in blood.
His blood.
Zeiren stared at it blankly. The sight felt strangely distant, as though it belonged to someone else. His thoughts struggled to keep up with reality. He knew he should be terrified. He knew he should be doing something. Running, maybe. Screaming. Anything.
Instead, his mind settled on a single, absurd thought.
Seriously?
I get shot because of canned coffee?
Another gunshot rang out.
Then another.
The screams around him became distorted and distant as his legs finally gave out beneath him. The store floor rushed closer, his vision growing darker with every passing second. Somewhere in the chaos, people were shouting and crying, but their voices sounded muffled, as though he were hearing them from underwater.
As consciousness slipped away, Zeiren couldn't help feeling irritated.
He had spent ten minutes fixing that shelf.
Now someone else was probably going to mess it up.
The thought lingered for only a moment before darkness swallowed everything.