[ Jesse watches the ants move in like the cheese has just become some tragic monument, a tiny, orange crime scene. He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, shoulders relaxing a little. Okay, this guy’s got a sense of humor. That he can work with. He shakes his hand firmly, then hands over the candy bar without ceremony, unwrapping one for himself in the same motion. Let's just ignore the fact that Jesse hasn't actually paid for any of this. He finds that acting casual and doing things in plain sight usually means you get away with them, though, so he's not tripping over it. ]

Tight. Done deal, then. I'm Jesse, by the way.

[ There’s a crunch when he bites into the candy bar. Pretzel, caramel, sugar grit between his teeth. It’s cheap, industrial-grade sweet, probably made in a plant somewhere that also manufactures dog food and rat poison, but goddamn if it doesn’t hit right. Like it’s trying to be joy, or at least doing its best. Jesse leans back against the nearest shelf with a lazy slouch, the kind that says he’s used to parking his body anywhere it’s not actively being kicked out of. He watches the crowd move past. Chaotic knots of people, barterers with too-loud voices, the distant flicker of neon signage glitching like a dying star. Then he glances back to the guy who’s now in possession of his peace offering, waiting with bated breath to see if he tries it, like it's a sacred rite. ]

So you gotta tell me what the verdict is, man. Worth trading your pride and your cheese for? Or should I start bracing for that twenty-minute penance?