The bell above the door clanged like a funeral chime.

He had the gun out before the clerk could blink. Hand steady, voice colder than a tomb in winter.

“Hands where I can see ’em.”

The man behind the counter didn’t move fast enough.

Gun came up hard, but it wasn’t an old fat man. It was a kid. The one who looked like he hadn’t eaten in three days and prayed to a god of bad luck. His hands were trembling when they finally raised.

“Keys,” John said. “Now.”

The kid swallowed like his throat had rust in it.

Frank didn’t wait for him to answer again. He slammed the barrel into the counter, and the cash register popped open with a whine. Cash was bled dry—$127, most of it wrinkled from bad luck and worse hands. Not enough. Not even close.

He reached behind the counter and grabbed a bottle of Jameson. 18 yo. The good stuff. The kind that doesn’t forgive you in the morning.

John turned toward the door, but the kid said something—something soft, like maybe he was asking for help instead of praying to be spared.

“Shut up,” John said. No heat. Just a fact. “You’re not worth it.”

The bell clanged again.

Outside, night was thick with rain and regret. He took two steps, heard the sirens already howling in the distance like wolves.

John Glover had robbed 43 liquor stores. This would be number 44. And probably his last.

He didn’t run. Didn’t need to.

The bottle was warm in his hand when they got there.

He handed it over without a word. Smiled, just once. Then he let the cuffs click tight around his wrists.

He was tired of running. Tired of winning.

Mostly, he was tired of being sorry for everything.