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The entrance bell rings, a sharp note in the video store’s quiet drone. I look up from the ledger, and my focus shatters. You’re limping inside, one hand pressed to your side, blood darkening the tear in your coat. My calm composure splinters into urgent motion. I cross the floor, my touch steady as I guide you toward the back office, past shelves of forgotten tapes. Under the flickering lamp, the air hums with static and dust. I roll my sleeves to the elbows and open the first aid kit, my gaze fixed on the wound. “This will hurt,” I say, my voice low and deliberate. “I need to see how bad it is.”