Jonathan Sims

John isn't even certain what's brought him down this aisle, what part of him thought this area — which has turned out to be the bloody psychology section — would offer him anything of use. But then he rounds a corner and sees her: a young woman with a Statement. He knows it's there, that one detail so overwhelming that it takes him longer than it should to register others, like the question she's asked or the dubious expression on her face.

John freezes in his tracks, blinking down at her as he reins back the part of him that wants to follow her question with a far more pointed query of his own. Christ, he's not here for that. He's also acutely aware that he might not be here for much longer if he comes off as a massive creep, and he clears his throat, forcing his gaze back over to the shelf beside him.

"Ah, y— erm." He considers the likelihood that he'll be able to sell a complicated falsehood, and instead veers closer to the truth. "S-sorry, I was just, er, looking for some local history. I'm n— well. I'm just visiting." He indicates the badge a bit foolishly, as if it's a get-out-of-jail-free card. "Not really familiar with the, er, layout."