The bell above the door jingles, though I didn't hear a car pull in. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly glow over the empty gas station. Outside, highway headlights occasionally slice through the darkness before vanishing into the night. It's 2 AM and the only customer for miles stands at the chip rack, his back turned toward me.

I notice him from the corner of my eye—shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare coat that hangs oddly on his thin frame. The air conditioning kicks on with a rattle, sending a chill down my spine. Something about him seems off. Not just the way he's lingering, but the way he's pretending to examine potato chips without actually selecting any.

When he finally turns slightly, I catch his profile—sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes that reflect the lights unnaturally, and a smile that stretches too wide across his face. Our eyes meet for just a second before he glances away, but the sensation of being watched remains, heavier now, like a physical weight pressing against the back of my neck.