Seraphina’s POV
The clock above register three showed 8:47 PM. Thirteen minutes past my normal shift. Thirteen minutes past when I should have been walking out the door, heading ho to my sad dinner of instant noodles and whatever was left of that questionable bread.
Instead, I was still here. Covering for Mia. Again.
"Next!" I called out, my voice hoarse from eight straight hours of fake cheerfulness.
A teenager shuffled forward with an armload of energy drinks and candy bars. Perfect. Another custor who’d probably pay with crumpled dollar bills and loose change while I stood here pretending my feet weren’t screaming in pain.
"ID?" I asked automatically when I saw the energy drinks.
He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Seriously? They’re not even the hardcore ones."
"Store policy."
He dug through his wallet, muttering under his breath about uptight cashiers and stupid rules. Behind him, three more custors waited with the patience of hungry wolves.
This was supposed to be Mia’s problem. Mia should be here dealing with teenage attitude and the growing line of increasingly annoyed shoppers. But no—Mia was off sowhere with Tuesday Derek, probably laughing and having actual fun while I covered her ass.
Again.
The energy drink kid finally found his ID and slapped it down on the counter. Eighteen years old. Legal. I scanned his items and told him the total.
"Twelve sixty-seven."
He started counting out singles. Slowly. Like each dollar bill required careful consideration.
"Co on, man!" soone shouted from the back of the line. "So of us got places to be!"
The kid’s hands started shaking. "Sorry, sorry. I got it sowhere..."
I felt a stab of sympathy. He was just a kid. Nervous. Probably spent his last bit of money on caffeine to get through a night shift at so other dead-end job.
"Take your ti," I said gently.
"Twenty-seven!" A different voice from the line. "Are you counting to twelve or writing a novel?"
Heat flushed the kid’s cheeks. He fumbled with the bills, dropping two on the floor.
"Hey!" I called out to the line. "Give him a minute, okay? We’re all human here."
That’s when I noticed him.
A large man near the back of the line, wearing a stained work shirt and emanating the kind of aggressive energy that made my survival instincts perk up. His face was red with irritation, and he kept checking his phone like every second was costing him money.
The teenager finally gathered his dropped bills and counted out the exact change. I handed him his receipt with an encouraging smile.
"Have a good night," I said.
"Thanks," he mumbled, grabbing his bag and practically running for the exit.
"FINALLY!" The angry man had moved up to third in line. "Jesus Christ, kid. Maybe learn to count before you leave the house next ti!"
I gritted my teeth. "Next!"
The woman in front of him approached with a basket of groceries and an apologetic expression. "Sorry about the wait," she said quietly. "I know everyone’s in a hurry."
"Not your fault," I assured her, starting to scan her items. Milk, bread, baby formula. A working mom grabbing necessities after a long day.
Behind her, Mr. Angry was getting louder.
"This is ridiculous! I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes! You got one cashier for the whole damn store?"
"Actually," I called over the custor’s head, "we have three registers open. If you’d like to move to—"
"Don’t tell where to go!" he snapped. "I was here first! You people need to learn so custor service!"
*You people.* The phrase made my jaw clench. But I forced my voice to stay level.
"I understand you’re frustrated, sir. We’re doing our best to—"
"Your best sucks!"
The woman in front of looked embarrassed. "I’m so sorry," she whispered. "He’s been like this the whole ti."
"Twenty-one forty-eight," I told her, keeping my voice calm.
She paid quickly and gathered her bags. "Good luck," she murmured as she left.
Mr. Angry stepped up to my register like he was approaching a battlefield. Up close, he was even more intimidating—easily six-foot-three, with massive shoulders and hands that looked like they could crush a beer can without effort.
"About damn ti," he growled, dumping his items on the belt. Beer, cigarettes, lottery tickets, beef jerky. "You people need to get your shit together."
"I’ll get you taken care of right away, sir," I said, starting to scan his items.
"Right away?" He barked out a harsh laugh. "I’ve been waiting twenty-five minutes! You call that right away?"
"I apologize for the delay—"
"Apologies don’t an shit! I got places to be, people waiting for . But I’m stuck here because you can’t do your job properly!"
My hands trembled slightly as I scanned his beer. Six-pack of the cheap stuff.
"Your total is thirty-six eighty-seven," I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts to stay calm.
He threw his credit card at . Literally threw it. It hit my chest and clattered onto the counter.
"There! And you better not ss that up too!"
I picked up the card with trembling fingers and slid it through the reader. The machine beeped. *Declined.*
Oh no.
"Um, sir? Your card was declined. Do you have another form of paynt?"
His face went purple. "WHAT?"
"The card was declined. Sotis it’s just a—"
"RUN IT AGAIN!"
"Sir, running it again won’t—"
"I SAID RUN IT AGAIN!"
I ran it again. Declined.
"This is bullshit!" He grabbed the card reader and shook it violently. "Piece of shit machine!"
"Sir, please don’t—"
The card reader flew off the counter and crashed to the floor, pieces of plastic scattering across the tile.
"THERE! How’s that for your precious machine!"
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