Sammy Chen stumbled backward until his spine hit the metal cigarette rack behind Register 1.
Packs of menthols cascaded around his sneakers. Two inches from his throat, the curved iron beak of the lead Municipal Curfew Warden’s citation hook hovered in the cold indoor air, dripping black street-puddle water onto the counter.
Outside the breached weather-stripping, the seven-foot Warden stepped onto the brass door sill.
Its heavy oilskin trench coat scraped against the aluminum jamb. The smooth gray slate of its featureless head tilted downward toward Sammy’s collar as the vertical citation-slot in its throat clacked like a rusty stapler:
“UNSHIELDED PREMISES. RULE 77 NEON DARK. SURRENDER FOR MUNICIPAL SALVAGE.”
Julian vaulted across the front of Register 1 and planted his boots squarely on the rubber threshold mat between Sammy’s throat and the iron hook.
He didn’t swing a wrench.
Instead, Julian thrust his left hand straight into the Warden’s faceless slate head, holding up a single yellow-edged thermal voucher stamped in purple ink:
