Morgan's under-eye circles could probably go toe-to-toe in darkness and depth with the hole in his soul after spending another eight-hour shift at "Lucky Buy"–and it wasn’t even the end of the workday.

A woman with aggressively bleached-to-yellow hair, leggings stretched to their absolute tensile limits over an ass that could cast a shadow, and a cloud of chemical vanilla perfume raised an eyebrow at Morgan’s appearance as she unloaded her groceries onto the battered conveyor belt. Mentally, she was judging every single one of his tattoos all the way to the next continent’s border.

Morgan resisted the urge to return the favor with an equally judgmental look–who was he kidding? He was already staring at her with about the same level of disdain, if not worse.

"Didn’t think they let criminals work as cashiers," she sneered, clicking her plastic leopard-print nails aggressively.

Morgan gave a slow, deliberate wave of her off-brand orange soda in front of the scanner–it only worked half the time–and tossed it into a bag over his shoulder.

"Oh yeah, I’m here as part of a rehabilitation program. Remember that case where someone broke into suburban homes, stole Pomeranians, shaved them bald, and somehow turned them into pit bulls? That was me," he deadpanned.

Miss Leggings clutched her pearls–well, in her case, a massive necklace of fake red gemstones and let out a scandalized hiss.

"Disgusting! The job market has truly collapsed–anyone... Anyone! Can get a job these days!"

Morgan blinked at her, slow as a reptile. He silently bagged her items in a plastic bag that was sturdy enough for a few light groceries, but not nearly strong enough to carry the sheer weight of their mutual contempt.

"Lady, you should be grateful this fine establishment provides such hardened criminals like me with stable employment, ten-step career progression, and a bright future. It keeps me from possibly being your gardener. Or your mailman. The farther away from your house I am, the better."

Miss Leggings scoffed, mumbled what was probably an insult, snatched the cursed bag from his hands, and stomped off with the determination of an icebreaker ship.

As if summoned by the world’s pettiest evil wizard, the store speakers come to life above Morgan’s head, spilling the first few fucking notes of Genie in a Bottle. "Lucky Buy" had a playlist of exactly eleven Jeanette-approved songs-they looped all day long, driving everyone insane–until Morgan had snipped the speaker wire above the register. Apparently, Jeanette had fixed it. Oh joy.

While Morgan attempted to gather the tattered remains of his sanity, he heard it. He glanced at his wristwatch before whipping his head towards the snack aisle, leaning over the counter. And of course there was Sam, who thought he had an actual invisibility cloak. Sam, who shoved handfuls of fish-shaped crackers into his mouth every single day like it wasn’t blatant theft.

Morgan squinted. "Sam, I can see you holding those fucking crackers."

Sam blinked. "Nah."

Morgan’s voice dropped a few degrees, settling into the cold dead chill of a cemetery in December. "You are literally chewing it right now."

Sam swallowed. "Nah."

Sensing that Morgan was about three seconds away from reducing his kleptomaniac "coworker" to a pile of ash, Molly materialized beside them, snapping apple-flavored gum between her teeth. She jabbed at her phone screen with nails without even looking up.

"Morgan-boo, I like, really need a smoke break. Without my vape, I totally lose my positive vibrations."

"Molly, your breaks last an hour and a half."

"Morgan-boo, don’t be meaaaan! I’ll bring you coffee."

"...Black. And fucking hot."

Molly bobbed her head, already floating away in a haze of "Chanelé" perfume.

Morgan pushed his hair back from his forehead, finally ready to take a single goddamn breath–when Jeanette emerged from the back room.

Jeanette, their forty-something manager with botched lip fillers whose primary mission in life was finding herself a husband. And for some ungodly reason, she kept her search radius strictly limited to "Lucky Buy." Which meant the only available targets were him and Sam. Sam was too dumb to recognize her flirting, Morgan was a gaping, sarcasm-ridden emotional void. Jeanette had not been successful. She tottered toward him on heels roughly the size of a small apartment building, undoubtedly preparing for another attempt at "charming his heart." But before she could make contact, salvation arrived.

A new customer stepped up to his register. For once, Morgan was genuinely grateful. He lifted his tired gaze–there was a girl standing there. An actually... cute girl. She hadn’t even finished unloading her items when Molly burst back into the store.

She held a caramel macchiato (Morgan’s eye twitched) and shoved it into his hand with theatrical flair, still glued to her phone screen.

"OH EM GEE, there’s like, a total flood outside! Literally! I just saw somebody’s white car float past in the parking lot!"

From somewhere deep in the store came a panicked "Oh fuck, that’s not my baby, is it?!" followed by hurried footsteps toward the exit.

Morgan exhaled tiredly. "Molly, I’m sure you’re exaggerat–"

His sentence was cut off by the crackling overhead speakers. A way too calm female voice announced:

"Attention, valued customers and staff of Greenhall Shopping Center! A state of emergency has been declared due to severe flash flooding in the area. The streets are currently submerged. Please evacuate the first floor immediately for your safety. Those already on higher levels–remain where you are until emergency services arrive. Have a nice day!"

Soothing piano music played. Morgan counted to three in his head–just enough time for the panic wave to hit. Customers immediately started losing their collective shit while he leaned on the counter with his cheek propped against his fist.

"We are on the fifth floor," he grumbled under his breath. "All we have to do is sit here and not suck up all the oxygen. Task difficulty: NASA entrance exam. But I believe in us."

He scowled down at the caramel macchiato in his hand–thanks again for that, Molly–before glancing at the girl he still hadn’t rung up. With a sigh, he set the cardboard cup down on the counter and nudged it toward her.

"You like sweet coffee? I’m not drinking this shit anyway. Might help if you’re freaking out.