The conversation this morning dominated your thoughts all day, distracting you from your classes, but you still couldn't get what he mentioned out of your head. Your grandfather was old and probably senile, so he probably had no idea what he was even saying. A minotaur, really? How is that even possible? You weren't Greek, your father wasn't a bull, and most importantly: minotaurs don't exist. Still, you couldn't help but wonder why you kept ruminating over this nonsense conversation so much.
You had been walking back from classes, and without practice to go to or friends to hang out with, you only real course of action was to head back home. Something in the corner of your eye knocked you from your thoughts: a large, black van, which you realized had been following you since you left the high school. It was so stereotypical it was almost funny. The van suddenly swerved, rapidly making a u-turn into the parking lot you were walking through, causing its tires to squeal and numerous honks from nearby drivers. The van's driver didn't seem to care, though, as it continued barreling towards you. You take this opportunity to book it; you have no idea why the wannabe CIA is chasing you, and you honestly don't want to find out.
As you run into a nearby alleyway, you hear the van come to a screeching halt, and quickly look behind you. Four people with heavy gear and weapons you don't recognize jump out of the van, clearly intent on pursuing you. As you face forward, you hear one of your hunters shout "don't let him get away!" and you attempt to pick up your pace, hoping to have enough of a lead to lose them somewhere along the line. They wouldn't want to reveal themselves by chasing a poor, innocent teen through a shopping district, right?
Apparently not. As you make your way out of the alleyways, you hurriedly turn into the first store you see, diving underneath the front windowpane and praying you are out of sight.
The shopkeeper gives you a quizzical look and starts to ask what you are doing, before noticing the armed men running past the large display window. He pauses, then gestures his head back, signaling you to head into the store's back room. You just barely make it inside and manage to close the door before one of the faux Secret Service members starts interrogating the shopkeeper. You place your ear to the door and try to listen in.
"Hey there, welcome to -" smirking, the shopkeeper sarcastically tries to introduce the store with his usual sales pitch before being interrupted.
"Have you seen a teenager running through here? Male, young adult, Caucasian, short brown hair, wearing high school dress code: a gray polo, and black dress pants." The agent's voice was completely monotone, but still imposing and demanding.
"That might just be the most generic description I've ever heard. You pro'ly just described half the kids in town. Do ya mind being a little more descriptive? Was he armed? 'Cause you clearly are." The shopkeeper continues smirking, his tone still deadpan, but a touch more serious.
"Sir, if you aren't willing to cooperate-"
"You'll what? Arrest me? Who are you working with anyway? I don't see a badge, and I highly doubt you have a warrant." The store owner's face changed completely: he was now glaring at the agent and spoke sharply. The agent deeply inhaled and quickly exhaled through his nostrils. Realizing that the owner wasn't willing to be agreeable, he decided arguing with the old man would be completely fruitless.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be on my way," he said acerbically, clearly unsatisfied with the encounter.
"You're clear, kid," he whispered, keeping his eyes on the agent the entire time as he left the shop. Crawling out of the backroom, the owner looked at you with a scrutinizing glare, as you did the same, finally taking in the chance to observe where you ended up. The shopkeeper was an older man, likely in his mid-fifties, tall as well as muscular, he looked like he was more fitting in the army than running a store. Looking around, you finally notice that you were in a glass and pottery store, and are somewhat surprised nothing was damaged in the whole ordeal. "You know what he was doing?" You turn your attention back towards the shopkeeper, vehemently shaking your head side-to-side. "Ya lyin' to me?" You continue shaking your head. He sighs, then begins talking again. "I ain't a fan of teenagers, but I'm even less a fan of the feds, and he looked way too dangerous to be chasing some kid around." You breathe a sigh of relief. He begins to walk out of the back of the store and mentions to you that it'd probably be safer to wait here for a while, until they've completely cleared out, before going back to tend the wares.
After waiting a few hours, you finally figure it's safe enough to head home. Before you leave the store, you grab a business card, which reads: "The Kiln. Handmade glassware and pottery. Hector T., owner." You stick it in your wallet before quickly sprinting through the shopping district towards your house, carefully watching to see if you're being followed again.
You finally arrive back at home, exhausted and confused, and decide to...
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