Jeremiah closed the door behind the fleeing thief, the latch clicking shut with a finality that seemed to echo through the shop. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the silence settle like dust after a storm. The stillness pressed in, the familiar scents of coffee and pastry suddenly sharper in the wake of what had just happened.

He made his way back behind the counter, his steps slow and heavy. The shop felt larger now, the sunlight streaming through the front windows unable to chase away the emptiness that had crept in. The gentle chorus of animal breaths — puppy play, the rhythmic pulse of Billy's bubbles — sounded distant, swallowed by the hush that followed disappointment.

Dropping into his chair, Jeremiah leaned forward, elbows propped on the counter. He rubbed his temples, fingers dragging down his face in an effort to erase the ache of frustration and embarrassment. He stared at the neat rows of new merchandise, the glass case that had almost become a liability, and the bright splash of sunlight that caught on floating dust motes above the pastry display. Everything seemed to pause as if the entire shop was holding its breath.

A soft plop and a ripple in the water drew his attention.

Billy had clambered up to the rim of his bowl, golden eyes wide with concern, tiny tentacles pressed to the glass as if to reach him. The baby kraken radiated worry through their link, his gaze silently asking questions Jeremiah had no easy answers for.

Jeremiah managed a tired smile and tapped the bowl with a gentle knuckle. "Hey, buddy. I'm all right, really." The words felt thin, but he tried to mean them.

Billy chirred in response, his tentacles curling and uncurling, anxious.

Jeremiah's smile softened with rueful affection. "Just wasn't the first customer I hoped for, that's all." He let his hand rest on the counter, tracing idle circles in the dust. "Guess some days don't work out how you plan."

"I'd say so," came a familiar, sardonic voice. Jeremiah started and looked up to see Mero perched atop the Beast Talisman case, arms folded, a knowing glint in his eye.

Jeremiah let out a sheepish laugh, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. "Saw that disaster, did you?"

Mero grinned. "I did, and I saw how ya handled it too." He hopped down onto the counter, his wings fluttering. "You did fine, kid. Don't sell yourself short."

He planted his hands on his hips. "Stop kicking yerself about what ya could've done differently. Ask yerself, what did you learn?"

Jeremiah's smile faded as he considered that. His gaze drifted to the door, then to the sunlight spilling across the floor. He let out a slow breath, weighing the question.

"What I learned," he said at last, "is not everyone who walks through those doors is going to be a customer — or mean me well. After being around folks like Ulrick and Lewis, I guess I forgot what the Crossroads can be like. I wanted to bring a bit of the Central I remembered back with me, but… the Outskirts are different. The rules aren't the same."

Mero nodded, his expression thoughtful. "So, what're you gonna do about it?"

Jeremiah straightened, stood, and moved to the display case, checking the line of talismans. "First thing is this." He slid the glass shut and locked it with a decisive click. Leaving it open had been careless, a mistake he wouldn't repeat. "If people want to look, they can ask."

He glanced back at Mero, determination starting to kindle behind the tiredness. "I want this place to be open and friendly. But I can't let that make me a fool." He had underestimated how tempting easy magic would be to the opportunistic. It was a lesson he couldn't afford to forget. The talisman's current case wasn't perfect, but it would do until he could afford something better.

Jeremiah looked around the store, the newly locked talisman case glinting in the sunlight. He drew a steadying breath, then summoned his System menu. It was time to turn those lessons into action.

A few quick swipes through the shop's interface, and he found what he was after: a basic security camera kit. Nothing fancy, just a cluster of small, sleek cameras, each with a modest resolution, designed to cover every corner of the store. For ten marks, it was hardly cutting-edge, but the thought of those lenses blinking from the ceiling brought him a certain comfort.

It wasn't going to truly stop anyone, but it would make any would-be-thieves think twice and give him the time he needed for a more permanent solution.

With a mental confirmation, the system processed the purchase. A brief shimmer in the air and the cameras materialized, one after another, in neat little boxes at his feet. Jeremiah set to work, climbing a stepstool to affix each device to its new home. When he finished, he tapped the tablet included with the kit. The display came alive with a crisp grid of views: the front entrance, the pastry counter, the puppy enclosure, and every aisle in between.

Next, he tackled the shelves. Jeremiah shifted some of the higher-ticket items to new homes behind the counter or onto shelves closer to his line of sight. The talismans now rested beneath glass with a lock, the rare treats and specialty goods stood in clear view, but well out of easy reach. Even the display of omni-crates found a new place, close enough to be prominently displayed, but high enough away from quick hands that you would need a stool.

He dusted his hands off on his vest and stepped back, surveying his work. The shop felt a little more secure, a little more like his own.

It wasn't just about stopping thieves, he realized. It was about respecting the space—and the people—who depended on it. The animals dozing in the sunlight, the families who might stop by, the regulars he hoped would soon fill the cafe. They deserved a place that was both safe and welcoming.

Jeremiah let himself relax for the first time that day, drawing in the scent of coffee and warm pastry, the soft shuffle of puppy paws, and the gentle hum of the new cameras. He knew it would take time for the Menagerie to become what he wanted it to be. But today, at least, it felt like he'd taken one more real step toward building it.

He stood at the center of the store, arms folded, and let himself smile.

Now. What came next?

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Wednesday, September 28th, 2253 - 7:15 pm

The Mystical Menagerie.

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The hours crept by, each one marked by the slow march of golden sunlight across the shop's polished floors. Jeremiah soon found himself slipping into a rhythm — the gentle chime of the door, the rustle of shopping bags, the soft drone of the cafe's old radio.

His first customer after the thief was a man who seemed carved from granite: easily six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a beard like a bear's ruff and scars that crisscrossed his hands and neck. He didn't so much enter as loom, peering around with hooded eyes. Jeremiah offered a polite "Afternoon," but the man only grunted in reply, his boots thudding against the wood. For a tense minute, Jeremiah watched as he stalked the shelves, pausing to glance at the cat enclosure, then the talismans, and then finally, the rows of canned food.

Without a word, the giant selected a single can — tuna pâté, Jeremiah noticed — set it on the counter and slid a few coins across. Jeremiah rang him up and tried for a friendly smile. The man nodded once, deep and deliberate, before turning on his heel and striding out into the sunlight.

Jeremiah watched the door swing closed, and exhaled. Even the new security cameras seemed to regard the man with mechanical caution.

The afternoon passed, and new sounds filled the shop. The next visitor was a woman whose exhaustion clung to her like a second coat. She carried grocery bags slung over both arms, and her eyes — shadowed and dull — flickered with relief as she spotted the cafe nook. Two small children clung to her skirts, one tugging at her sleeve, the other skipping circles around her legs. Tish and Tosh, never ones to pass up playmates, bounded over at once, their tails wagging furiously.

"Is it all right if we…?" the woman asked, gesturing at the cafe's battered sofa.

"Of course," Jeremiah said, already pouring her a cup of coffee. "On the house, today. Grand opening."

She smiled gratefully and sank into the cushions, letting her groceries drop with a sigh. The toddlers erupted in delighted shrieks as the puppies tumbled after them, weaving between table legs and scattering the last rays of light. By the time her cup was drained, both children and both puppies were panting, red-cheeked and exhausted, splayed together in a heap near the sunny window. The woman gathered her brood with murmured thanks, her smile weary but genuine as she led her little family out the door.

Jeremiah found himself smiling too, his spirits buoyed by the small, simple victory.

Later, a new kind of customer sauntered in. The man's eyes were a little too bright, his smile too sharp. One of the street's wandering hawkers, if Jeremiah guessed right. The man sidled up to the counter and laid out his wares: a tangled mess of trinkets, odd keys, mismatched buttons, a clock with half its face missing. "Special today," he whispered, as if they were in on a secret.

Jeremiah glanced at the offerings, then shook his head. "Sorry, friend. We're pretty selective about what we carry." But instead of sending him away, he gestured to the QTM sitting quietly against the wall. "But you might have luck with the Quantum Teller Machine. It's open to anyone with something to trade."

The man's interest piqued. He eyed the strange, humming box, fiddled with a few buttons, and after a moment, the privacy screen sprung up around him. When the screen finally fell, the man was grinning eye to ear, and he practically skipped out of the store, vanishing into the twilight with a spring in his step.

The rest of the day blurred into a tapestry of faces and small moments: a pair of teenagers arguing over the price of omni-crates, a gray-haired woman buying a single pastry, and spending a full hour watching the kittens play. Sometimes Jeremiah made a sale, more often not. Still, each interaction was a thread weaving the Mystical Menagerie into the fabric of the Crossroads.

As dusk settled and the shop's lights cast long shadows on the floor, Jeremiah was stacking mugs behind the counter when the door opened again. A familiar figure shuffled inside — Sally, the old grocer from across the street, her cheeks ruddy from the evening air.

Sally paused in the entryway, pausing just long enough to dust flour from her hands and tuck a stray end of her scarf into her coat. A familiar warmth settled over the shop at the sight of her, and Jeremiah's smile was easy and genuine.

He set aside the ledger he'd been poring over and greeted her. "Evening, Sally. What brings you out so late?"

She returned his smile, her eyes bright with amusement. "Thought it was high time I checked in on the new competition," she said, her cackle echoing through the shop. Jeremiah just shook his head, unable to hide his amusement.

"It's been… a bit of everything — some good, some not so much. Just a handful of customers today, but that's about what I expected until word gets around," he admitted.

Sally's eyes narrowed further, her wrinkles deepening into a sly grin. "Oh? So a few of them actually came to check you out, did they? I'm glad to hear."

Jeremiah frowned, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

She laughed, a sound both sharp and fond. "Child, who do you think's been sending folks your way all day? You think people come down this alley for the scenery? Someone has to nudge them along."

Jeremiah blinked, surprise giving way to a spreading warmth in his chest. He'd wondered why so many strangers had found the shop his very first day, but hadn't really questioned it. Now it made sense, and gratitude colored his smile.

"Thank you, Sally. Honestly. And thanks for the coffee. It's been a hit."

Sally waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't go getting sentimental. And who said the coffee was just for you?" She beelined for the cafe counter. "My old man couldn't brew a decent cup if his life depended on it, and my hands aren't what they used to be. Pour me a cup, would you?"

Jeremiah chuckled and crossed the room, grabbing a mug from the rack. As he poured, Sally's eyes sparkled with familiar mischief.

"Besides," she confided, "I've been sitting on bags of that stuff for months now. Too rich for most folks 'round here. Never should've let that charmer talk me into the shipment." She took a sip, her features softening in contentment before glancing up at Jeremiah with a fox's grin. "But if you get the neighborhood hooked on the good stuff? Well, there's only one place you can come to buy more, isn't there? Huehuehuehue."

Jeremiah paused, blinked, then broke into laughter.

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In the alley, evening shadows pooled thick around the sprawled figure huddled against the cold stone. He lay curled on his side, arms wrapped tight over his ribs, every shallow breath sharp with pain. Boots scraped against broken glass and concrete as a ring of hard-faced men circled closer, their silhouettes cut by the glow of a distant streetlamp.

A sharp voice cut through the murmurs. "That's enough."

At once, the men stepped back, parting just enough for the figure on the ground to glimpse the man perched atop a battered crate nearby. He was older than the rest, suit rumpled but not cheap, his eyes cold and clear above a ghost of a smile.

"Now, Richard," the man said, his tone almost conversational, "what did we learn today?"

Richard tried to form words, but only a broken cough came out. He barely had time to brace as the man slid off the crate and crossed the distance in a few smooth strides.

"We learned," the man said, voice still calm as he drove his foot into the other's side, "that when I ask you to scout a place —" Another sharp kick landed. "— you scout. You don't try to lift some bauble and tip the owner off." Two more blows, quick and merciless, punctuated his words."You think we can afford the baker's eyes on us?!" His next kick was less forceful, more a shove that left Richard clutching at the filthy pavement.

Satisfied, the man gave a sharp nod. Two of the heavies stepped forward, each grabbing an arm and hauling the battered figure to his feet. The man waved them off with a flick of his cigarette. "Get him out of here. Let him think about how close he came to costing us all."

Richard's protests were little more than a whimper as he was dragged away into the shadows.

Another man walked up, hesitant. "What now, boss?"

The boss was silent for a moment before answering. "Keep eyes on the place, but I don't want a repeat of this screw up. Understood?"

The other man nodded and turned, followed the group that had dragged Richard away.

Left alone in the alley, the boss drew a fresh cigarette from his coat and struck a match with practiced ease. He watched the end flare bright, then stared out over the rooftops in the direction of Market Street's newest shop.

The man grinned as the smoke curled into the night.

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