The next day, after waking up groggy and tired, Eli dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection.
After a quick breakfast of stale toast and instant coffee, he opened the familiar translucent system panel and tapped Sign In. The now-familiar vibration buzzed in his pocket as a notification pinged on his phone—another deposit, right on schedule.
Just as he was slipping on his shoes to head out for work, a sharp knock rattled the door.
He opened it to find his landlady, Mrs. Qiu. It wasn't a friendly visit.
Everyone in the building privately knew her as the *Karen* of the complex. She stood in the hallway like a storm cloud, arms crossed, her leopard-print blouse stretched tight across her chest.
"Well, well, well," she said, looking Eli up and down like she'd caught him stealing rent from under her mattress. Her lips were pursed into a permanent scowl, and she tapped one long nail against a clipboard.
"Guess what today is?"
"Rent day?" Eli muttered, already reaching into his pocket. "I always pay last minute. Good morning, Mrs. Qiu."
"Ding ding ding!" she chirped in mock cheerfulness, then immediately narrowed her eyes. "You're lucky I'm generous. The guy in 2B? I kicked him out last night. One day late. Do I look like a charity to you?"
Eli handed her an envelope filled with cash—2,000 yuan, more than enough. But she still counted it twice, licking her thumb dramatically between bills.
"Hmph," she said at last, tucking the money into her fanny pack. "I better not see any strange people coming in and out of your house. If you've got one of those loud gaming setups, I'll report you so fast you'll be eating instant noodles off a park bench."
Eli forced a smile. "Of course, Mrs. Qiu. No mining, no strangers."
He thought about how stressful she could be—and how she still hadn't fixed his leaking tap.
She turned, muttering something about "these modern kids" as she stomped down the hallway. Eli shut the door, exhaled slowly, and leaned his forehead against the wood.
---
**At Work – Golden Wok**
He turned around, only to come face to face with Mr. Han—the Golden Wok's manager.
A short, balding man with a permanent scowl and a button-up shirt that was always just a bit too tight, Mr. Han somehow managed to appear behind Eli like a horror movie jump scare.
"Break time's over."
"I didn't even take a break," Eli muttered under his breath.
"Eli," Mr. Han barked. "You just stood around talking to a customer. That's not working."
"I was taking his order."
"You were talking about feelings and dumplings," Mr. Han narrowed his eyes. "This isn't therapy, it's a restaurant. Let me guess—you're the guy who's definitely *not* getting paid enough?"
"Exactly!" Eli deadpanned. "You're learning."
Before Eli could respond, Mr. Han dropped a stack of dirty bowls on the counter so hard one nearly bounced off.
"Oh, and one more thing," he said, already turning away. "Table 3 wants their noodles, the fryer's down again, and we're out of clean spoons—so guess who's doing dishes too?"
Eli looked down at the leaning tower of dishes, then at the still-broken receipt printer.
"The health inspector's coming tomorrow, so make sure the fridge doesn't smell like someone died in it again."
With that, Mr. Han vanished into the back, yelling something unintelligible in the direction of the kitchen. A bead of sauce dripped from one of the bowls onto Eli's shoe.
"This job's gonna give me superpowers..." he sighed, "or a nervous breakdown."
And with that, he rolled up his sleeves and dove back into the chaos of the Golden Wok.
---
Later That Afternoon
The restaurant buzzed with noise—clattering pans, sizzling oil, the dull hum of fluorescent lights, and a chorus of voices as the dinner rush hit full force. Eli moved between tables with a worn-out notepad in hand and sweat forming at his temples.
His apron was already stained, and the soles of his shoes stuck slightly to the greasy tiles.
He approached **Table 7**, where a man in his early 40s sat, suit jacket off, tie loose, and phone in hand. The man didn't look up.
"Hi there, welcome to Golden Wok. Ready to order?" Eli asked, trying to sound upbeat despite the fatigue in his bones.
The man waved a dismissive hand, eyes still glued to his phone. "Yeah, whatever. I'll have the beef fried rice. And make it quick. I'm on my lunch break."
Eli nodded, writing it down. "Got it—beef fried rice. Would you like anything to drink?"
The man finally looked up, eyes narrowing. "Water. No ice. And make sure it's clean water. Last place I went to smelled like a public bathroom."
Eli offered a tight smile. "Understood."
He turned to leave, but the man called out again.
"Hey—make sure there's no peas in the rice. I *hate* peas. If I find even one, I'm sending the whole thing back. And I *won't* be paying for it."
Eli paused, slightly caught off guard. "I'll make sure they leave them out, sir."
The man gave a loud, sarcastic clap. "Wow, look at that—someone doing their job. Miracles still happen."
Eli took a deep breath and walked off, teeth clenched behind a forced smile.
In the kitchen, he handed the order to the cook and double-checked to write in bold:
**NO PEAS. CUSTOMER WILL LOSE IT.**
Mr. Han passed by just then, raising an eyebrow. "What's with the look?"
"Nothing," Eli muttered. "Just praying for the extinction of peas."