Darius had stopped at a rundown gas station on the edge of town to buy a gallon of milk and put ten dollars of gas into his struggling truck. He was standing at the counter, wallet in hand, when the door chimed and Trent Vaughn walked in.
Trent had spent years reading people, spotting the ones who would look away, step back, and convince themselves a bad situation wasn't their problem. When the single father in the faded work jacket stood at the register, Trent read him instantly. A nobody going nowhere.
Trent pulled a heavy, steel-barreled revolver from his coat and leveled it at the terrified teenage cashier. Then, he shifted his gaze to Darius.
"Hand it over," Trent barked, his voice tight with practiced aggression. "Keys, wallet, the ring, all of it."
Darius didn't move. He looked at the gun, then up at Trent’s face.
"You don't want to do this, son," Darius said, his voice as calm and steady as an idling engine. "That's enough."
Trent scoffed, tightening his grip on the weapon. "And who exactly are you supposed to be?"
"Someone who's not leaving."
"You've got a daughter waiting on you," Trent sneered, noticing the pink braided bracelet on Darius's thick wrist. "Don't be stupid."