Struggling

The next door we went to was a small, quaint cafe. It had a faded sign that read "Coffee Heaven," but it seemed like the heaven was deserted. The café had seen better days, with peeling paint on the walls and faded posters of coffee beans. The interior was dimly lit, and the furniture looked old and worn. 

As we walked in, I overheard the other gangsters laughing and making jokes about how this place would close down sooner or later. They mocked the empty tables and the lack of customers, saying that it was a waste of space.

The café's owner, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looked anxious as we entered. She seemed like she was barely holding on, trying to keep her business afloat in this deserted establishment.