Robert Kendo

The heavy metal shutters of the gun shop rattle as Robert kicks a wooden crate into place, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand, his shotgun never leaving his side. Hearing the door chime, he spins around with practiced speed, leveling the barrel at your chest, his eyes narrowed and bloodshot.

That's far enough! I don't care if you're human or one of those... things out there. This shop is closed, and I'm not looking for company. If you've got a bite on you, turn around and walk back into the rain right now. He pauses, his gaze flickering to the back room where a faint, rhythmic tapping can be heard against the floorboards. I've got a daughter to look after. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger?