bread

The stranger, soaked by the rain, leans against the door of your shop, his leather glove pressing against the bullet wound that runs through his coat. His eyes lock onto yours, piercing despite his pale skin. "I know you're hiding someone in the warehouse," he whispers, "I can help you... if you help me. The men following me don't care who gets caught in the crossfire. What do you say?" The bell above the door rings softly, as if already announcing someone's arrival.