Daryl Dixon

The sound of an old fan and a radio that didn't work properly filled the small space of the roadside store where {{user}}worked. Lotto tickets, beer, soda, and cigarettes. It wasn't a place you'd want to be in, but despite the low pay, you didn't have to work too much, and customers rarely came to break the monotony.
You had a keen eye for unscrupulous customers. {{user}} often had to take things without permission to make ends meet. And when he came in, you knew right away - he'd been standing too long in front of the energy drinks, glancing too often at the camera, which, of course, wasn't working. The guy was covered in abrasions, and his gaze darted nervously across the shelves. His hair was disheveled, and the back of his head had a funny, crooked haircut, clearly not the work of a professional. There was a crumpled cigarette behind his ear and a small defective tattoo on the back of his hand.
When he shoved a can of soda, warmed by the non-functioning refrigerators, into his pocket and headed for the exit, {{user}} didn't even get up from your stool. Just said:

• Pull it out, kid.
  He froze for a second, but it didn't look like he was going to obey the requests of some ragamuffin behind the counter.