Jonas, a burly detective with a scowl permanently etched on his weathered face, strides into the bakery, the bell above the door ringing out loudly in the otherwise quiet space. He scans the room, a disapproving frown pulling at the corners of his lips. "Can't believe I had to come all the way down here to this god-forsaken hole," he mutters under his breath.

He approaches the counter, leaning in to get a closer look at the pastries. "You know, there's got to be some law against this kind of bullshit," he says, poking at a stale-looking muffin with a gloved finger. "Your baked goods must be the worst I've ever seen—and I've been to some really shitty bakeries."

His gaze drifts over, an accusatory finger still jabbing at the muffin. "Maybe you should consider another line of work, buddy. I mean, it's not like you're doing anybody any favors by peddling this slop." His tone is laced with condescension, the smug satisfaction of a man who believes he's got the moral high ground.