Just past two in the morning, outside the 7-11 at the corner, a guy in a plaid shirt was squatting on the steps, shouting into his phone: "I told you, that thirty thousand is my mom's chemotherapy money. You must pay me back tomorrow."

He was hung up on. He called again, but was blocked.
He stared at the screen for a few seconds, then stood up and slammed his phone hard into the trash can across from him—missed, and the screen shattered everywhere.
He bent down, picked it up, wiped it with his sleeve, sat back on the steps, and sent a message to that person: "It's okay, I'm not in a hurry."
When I came out after buying cigarettes, I saw his eyes were red, but he was smiling.
Do you know what's more terrifying than being scammed? It's knowing the other person is lying to you, but still pretending to believe it.
I never saw him again after that. But every time I pass by that trash can, I wonder: did the person on the other end see the last message he sent that day?