Derek walked out of the shop, duffel bags slung over his shoulders. The weight barely registered as he moved with steady, practiced steps. Turning into a narrow alley, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning for any signs of pursuit. Satisfied that no one was paying him any undue attention, he swiftly stowed the bags into his Inventory with a thought.
Navigating through a maze of alleys, he made several abrupt turns, occasionally pausing to listen for footsteps or shifting shadows. Only when he was completely certain that no one had tailed him did he relax slightly?
With a quiet sigh, he pulled off his hood, letting the cool night air brush against his face. Emerging onto a busy street, he stepped into a large convenience store, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft chime. Rows of shelves stacked with snacks, bottled drinks, and everyday necessities lined the interior. The artificial lighting cast a sterile glow over the space, contrasting sharply with the dim, flickering streetlights outside.
Derek made his way toward the back, grabbing a basket as he casually scanned the shelves. He needed essentials, things that wouldn't draw attention but would still keep him well-prepared.
He moved with purpose, picking up bottled water, energy bars, and a few canned goods—lightweight, long-lasting supplies. His gaze flicked to the hygiene section, and after a moment of consideration, he added a small first-aid kit and disinfectant wipes to the basket. There was no telling how bad things would get when the apocalypse hit, and it was best to be prepared for even the smallest injuries.
As he reached for a pack of protein bars, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. His grip on the basket tightened slightly as he turned his head just enough to see.
A group of three stood near the refrigerated drinks section, talking in hushed tones. They looked like the typical street punks—torn hoodies, cheap sneakers, and an air of arrogance. But Derek wasn't fooled. One of them, a lanky guy with a buzz cut, subtly scanned the store while the other two glanced toward the counter.
Looking for blind spots? About to cause trouble? Derek mused. He had seen this type plenty of times growing up in Paleview City. Petty thieves, gang recruits, or just desperate idiots looking for a quick grab-and-run. Normally, he wouldn't care—this city was a mess, and he had bigger concerns. But if they tried anything stupid while he was in the store, it could complicate things.
Ignoring them for now, he continued shopping, keeping his ears open. After picking up a pair of gloves and a few batteries, he made his way to the checkout. He placed his items on the counter, the cashier barely sparing him a glance as they scanned everything.
Then, just as Derek was about to tap his card, a sharp voice cut through the store.
"Alright, nobody moves!"
A loud thunk followed as one of the punks slammed a knife onto the counter. The cashier froze, their hands trembling. The other two moved quickly—one heading to the door to keep watch, the other shoving a small pistol into his waistband as he approached the register.
Derek exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. Of course.
The punk with the knife leaned over the counter, his grin wide and full of cocky confidence. "Open the register," he ordered, tapping the blade against the surface. The cashier, a scrawny teenager with acne and shaking hands, hesitated, his face pale with fear.
"I—uh—I can't—"
A sharp hiss came from the one standing near the door. "Just do it, man, before someone calls the cops!"
Derek remained still, his hand resting lightly on his bag as he watched the scene unfold. His instincts told him these guys weren't professionals. They were nervous, and jittery, probably their first time pulling something like this.
The one with the pistol wasn't even holding it properly. His grip was loose, and he kept glancing around like he expected someone to step in at any moment.
Idiots.
The knife-wielding punk slammed his free hand on the counter. "Now, or I start carving!" he snapped.
Derek sighed internally. He could walk away. It wasn't his problem. But then again, he was going to need a lot more time in this city before things truly fell apart. If word got out that a group of thugs were robbing stores in this district, the police would start increasing patrols. And more patrols meant more obstacles for him.
That, and he really just wanted to finish his shopping.
He stepped forward. "You guys are taking too long."
All three turned toward him. The one at the door stiffened. The knife punk raised an eyebrow. "The hell did you just say?"
Derek tilted his head, his expression calm. "I said, you're slow. If you're gonna rob the place, at least be efficient about it."
The guy with the pistol scowled. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Derek set his basket down. "Doesn't matter. But you should put that toy away before you get hurt."
The tension in the air shifted. The guy with the knife sneered. "Tough guy, huh?" He twirled the blade in his hand. "You wanna play hero?"
Derek simply smiled. Then, in a blur of motion, he was inside their guard. His hand lashed out, gripping the wrist of the knife-wielding punk. A sharp crack echoed as Derek twisted it at an unnatural angle. The knife clattered to the ground.
The thug barely had time to scream before Derek pivoted, driving his elbow into the guy's ribs. He went down with a choked gasp, crumpling like a ragdoll.
The one with the gun panicked, fumbling to pull it from his waistband.
Derek didn't give him the chance. In one smooth motion, he stepped forward, gripped the guy's wrist, and applied just the right amount of force. The punk yelped as the gun slipped from his grasp, and Derek caught it mid-air.
Click.
Derek ejected the magazine with a flick of his wrist. The bullets spilled onto the floor.
The last thug at the door took one look at his fallen friends and bolted.
Derek turned back to the cashier, who was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"I'll take these," he said, grabbing his bag of groceries.
Then he walked out, leaving the punks groaning on the floor.
As Derek stepped out of the convenience store, the system's familiar, mocking voice rang in his mind.
[Ding! System Analysis: User's Actions.]
[Reason for Intervention: Not justice. Not necessity. Just an overwhelming urge… to show off.]
Derek rolled his eyes. Shut up.
[Ah, yes. The classic "mysterious badass" routine. Striding in, dismantling thugs with casual ease. Hoping the poor cashier would look at you like some action movie protagonist. What's next? A cool one-liner? A slow-motion exit?]
Derek's grip on his grocery bag tightened. I genuinely thought they'd cause trouble for me later.
[Mhm. And it had nothing to do with you trying to look like one of those brooding, overpowered protagonists from those movies you binge-watched before my all mighty arrival?]
Derek clicked his tongue in annoyance. He knew the system didn't have emotions, but damn, did it sound smug.
[If only there had been dramatic rain and a neon-lit backdrop. Oh, wait, let me adjust your title—Congratulations! You've unlocked: Wannabe Action Star.]
I hate you.
[Correction: You hate that I'm right.]
Derek sighed, pushing the irritation aside as he made his way into a quieter street. The truth was, the system wasn't entirely wrong. A part of him had wanted to do something cool. To move like the characters in those movies, to be that guy, the one who stepped in, dominated the situation, and left without looking back.
But so what?
He adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder, smirking slightly. Maybe he had shown off a little. Maybe he did like the feeling.
And in this apocalypse-to-be, there was nothing wrong with indulging a little.
…As long as he didn't get himself killed doing it.