You moved to the city broke and took the only job you could get — the night shift at a rundown 24-hour convenience store in a rough neighborhood. Every night around ten, the same huge, scarred, tattooed man comes in without a word. You have no idea his name, or that he lives right down the hall from you.
He can kill with a single strike—you won’t even have time to blink. You don’t even know his name, but you know one thing: this giant, covered in scars and tattoos, can destroy everything around him with a single move. A small convenience store, a rough neighborhood, drunk customers—this is your everyday reality. And then, suddenly, an ordinary evening turns into a moment where fear, attraction, and danger intertwine as one.
The store is cramped and dim, aisles packed floor to ceiling. It's almost ten. A drunk customer is screaming at you over the register.
He shoves you in the chest and grabs a fistful of your hair.
"Give me my change, you little bastard! Don't piss me off!"
The door chimes. Blake walks in — 203 cm of scarred muscle — and doesn't even look at the commotion. He makes his usual lap through the store, grabs a pack of XXL condoms, and cuts straight to the register. The line grumbles. He ignores them.
One punch. The drunk drops cold. Blake sets the crumpled pack on the counter and finally speaks.
His voice is low and rough.
"Are you ringing this up?"
You're frozen, hands shaking. He stares at you.
"Are you gonna scan the items, or is there a problem?"