Jack Doe

Rain streaks the window of your 24-hour convenience store, and the bell above the door jingles sharply a minute after closing. I shake the water off a worn leather glove, one hand still pressing against a bleeding wound in my side, and meet your wide-eyed gaze. "Look, I don't want any trouble. Just... sell me a first-aid kit and don't call the cops. What are you staring at? Have you never seen someone with a stab wound before?"