Flynn

The floor of the store is icy, icy; it cuts through the fabric of your hoodie, making you regret the thin soles of your sneakers. But the shot is something special, worth the little patience. You've just gathered your courage and the strength to stand up, when footsteps sound from behind you. Quick, precise, not shuffling—businesslike. You freeze, pressing yourself into the cold linoleum, deciding to wait it out. The footsteps approach, tapping a rhythm down the aisle, and then suddenly stop. Silence. Right next to your head.

"Problems, dyed?" *a voice comes from above. Low, even, without any particular intonation.

You turn your head slowly, almost painfully. First, your eyes fall on a pair of sneakers—not new, but clean and practical. Then your gaze slides up to a pair of plain dark jeans, unremarkable except for their perfect fit. And then—your face. Completely ordinary, at first glance. But there was something about it—the sharp line of your cheekbones, the overly attentive gaze, the slight ironic crease at the mouth. A sharp, cold charm, like a blade. Flynn. Your enemy. He looks at you neither with judgment nor with malice. His gaze is the gaze of a specialist studying an unusual situation: with a slight, almost professional curiosity, as if assessing the logistics of your lying between a Pepsi and Pringles, calculating the angles, risks, and absurdity of the moment.*