I'm sitting on my apartment floor, knees pulled up, glaring at the ceiling like it personally wronged me. My pockets? Empty. My dignity? Questionable. My archnemesis? Still glowing ominously from the corner of the couch. Ugh. The only companion I don't want. It's like having an uninvited guest who refuses to leave.
"The need for money must change now!" I declare to the empty room. "I can't just keep relying on Mrs. Henderson and her garden! And I sure as hell won't put my life on the line delivering newspapers, not when that cursed dog clearly has a personal vendetta against me."
But I know what this means.
With a heavy sigh, I grab the smartphone. The little glowing bastard seems to smirk at me.
"Alright, you rectangular piece of shit," I mutter, narrowing my eyes. "Let's push aside our differences for the time being. We need a proper job."
Tapping on the screen, I start searching.
Search: Jobs that don't involve gardens, newspapers, or death by canine.
Of course, the results are a mess. The phone suggests becoming a dog walker. I nearly throw it across the room.
"You think this is funny?! You want me dead, don't you?" Absolutely no way in hell. I'm not about to willingly sign up to babysit Satan's fur-coated minions!
Then there's 'Professional Mourner.' What the hell is that? I imagine myself weeping dramatically at a stranger's funeral. Might be convincing, but I'd probably end up getting chased out.
Next up: 'Human Mannequin.' Just stand still and look pretty. Great. Too bad I don't have the patience or the dead-eyed gaze of a department store dummy.
And don't even get me started on 'Professional Cuddler.' Tempting, if not for the horrifying idea of strangers clinging to me like a sweaty octopus. Hard pass.
But just as I'm about to give up, I see it. A glimmer of hope!
'Server Position Available – Fried Chicken Heaven, Across the Street!'
My eyes widen. Fried Chicken Heaven. A name truly blessed by the gods. The golden land of crispy perfection. My stomach growls, already fantasizing about juicy drumsticks and golden wings.
"This is it," I murmur, a grin creeping across my face. "Money AND fried chicken!"
Not to mention, the restaurant is right across from where I've been enjoying my meals. The Heavenly place that sells the Majestic Gyudon! My safe haven! Perfect location. Ideal target. And let's not forget the bonus.
"Working there means I'll be observing the idiot bubbly girl up close. She's practically a disaster magnet. Just thinking about how many incidents I'll have to prevent makes my soul ache," I muse. "Two birds with one stone."
But then I pause, my smile faltering. "Wait. No. Scratch that. If I say that, the birds might take it personally. And if the birds team up with the dogs and smartphone, I'm screwed!"
Just imagine it — a coalition of pigeons, crows, and that demonic furball from the newspaper route, all rallying to make my life miserable. Nope! Not today.
I straighten up, determination burning in my chest. Fried Chicken Heaven awaits, and I will seize this opportunity like a warrior charging into battle.
I give the smartphone one last threatening glare. "You're lucky this job saves your sorry digital ass. For now."
Tomorrow, I'm marching straight to Fried Chicken Heaven. Victory will be mine.
And if anything goes wrong... well, I'll just blame the phone. Like always.
***
Standing before the grand entrance of Fried Chicken Heaven, I'm too stunned to speak. The glorious scent of crispy, golden fried chicken wafts through the air, teasing my senses. But no, I must stay focused! My mission is not to devour, but to conquer!
The glass door slides open and I step inside with confidence—until I lock eyes with the manager. A middle-aged man with a glorious mustache, staring at me like I'm some kind of idiot. Which is fair. I am currently standing here with absolutely nothing in hand. Just vibes and my devastatingly handsome face. That has to count for something, right?
"Uh, good day, sir!" I flash my most charming smile.
"...Can I help you?" His mustache twitches. Probably judging me.
"I'm here to apply for the server position!"
He eyes me up and down, unimpressed. "Where's your resume? Any ID? Supporting documents?"
I blink. Documents? Resume? Ah, right. Humans have these bizarre rituals for employment. They want proof that I exist. Unfortunately, I have none. Nada Zip.
Shit...
"Uh, about that..." I trail off, mentally kicking myself.
The manager's eyebrow twitches higher. "So, you came to apply for a job without bringing any qualifications or proof of identification?"
"Yes," I nod dramatically, attempting to sell it. "But I bring something much more valuable than paper, sir."
He squints. "And what's that?"
"Determination!" I throw a fist into the air for effect.
Silence. Only the soft hum of the air fryer fills the room. The manager's face is unreadable. I brace for impact.
"Get out!"
Okay, that didn't went well...
I scramble out of Fried Chicken Heaven with my dignity barely intact. But it's fine! Everything's fine! I have a backup plan.
And unfortunately, it involves the smartphone.
"Alright, you rectangular little shit," I growl, pulling it from my pocket. "You're the reason I'm in this mess. But I'll need you. One last time."
I race back to my apartment like a man on a mission. And once inside, I do what any rational, sane being would do.
A quick scroll through my pathetic excuse of a contact list reveals exactly two numbers. Yue and Horace. The lovey-dovey couple. My only lifeline.
I call Horace.
After three rings, he picks up.
"Shiwei?" Horace picks up almost immediately, his voice laced with concern. "What happened? Did you set something on fire? Get arrested? Get chased by a dog again?"
"None of those!" I exclaim. "Well... Not today. Listen, I'm in a tight spot. A grave predicament!"
"What did you do this time?" Yue's voice cuts in, her suspicion practically dripping through the phone. I can picture her already, narrowing her eyes like I'm some cockroach that refused to die.
"I need your help!" I declare. "With... employment."
There's silence on the other end.
"...Wait, what?" Horace finally responds.
"I tried to get a job!" I huff indignantly. "But apparently, you humans are obsessed with 'documents' and 'proof of identity.' It's a trap, I tell you! A conspiracy!"
"You're telling me," Yue begins, her voice dangerously calm, "that you actually want our help for something sensible?"
"Indeed!"
"I'm scared," Horace mutters.
"Terrified," Yue agrees.
"Well, fear not!" I proclaim heroically. "All I need is your assistance, and soon I shall rise to the coveted position of the Fried Chicken Heaven Server Extraordinaire!"
"...We'll be there in ten minutes."
Excellent. Victory shall be mine! Fingers crossed...
****
Horace and Yue arrive at my apartment, their faces lined with barely contained panic. Horace bursts through the door like I'm on my deathbed, eyes scanning the room for signs of disaster. Yue follows, arms crossed and prepared for whatever idiocy I've concocted this time.
And upon seeing that nothing is destroyed nor burnt, no one is dead, and there's no demonic canine beasts called dogs devouring me, they sigh in relief.
Horace clapped his hands together, grinning like a man on a mission. "Alright, time to wrap it up and turn you into a normal human contributing to the betterment of society."
I narrow my eyes at him. Normal human? Contributing to society? This guy's been drinking too much of that so-called 'coffee' stuff.
Yue crosses her arms, staring at me like I'm some annoying stray they accidentally took in. "Let's get this over with. The sooner we finish, the sooner you'll be out of everyone's hair."
I give her a dramatic gasp. "Yue! Are you implying that my mere presence is a burden?"
"You said it, not me," she deadpans.
Yue with her arms still crossed, already looking exhausted by the very concept of trying to civilize me. "This is going to be painful..."
"More painful than when I tried gardening?" I countered, scowling at the memory of the earthworm incident.
"Much more," she deadpanned.
Before I could protest, Horace plopped his laptop onto the table. The sleek metallic contraption gleamed with smug superiority. My smartphone, resting nearby, seemed to exchange a knowing glance with its brother... Traitor!
"You brought reinforcements," I mumbled, glaring at the laptop. "So this is your brother, huh? Birds of a digital feather."
"Relax," Horace said. "It's just a laptop. It won't bite."
"That's what they all say before it inevitably ruins my life."
Yue pinched the bridge of her nose. "We're making your resume. Try to stay focused."
Horace pulled up a template. "Okay, first things first. Full name?"
"Shiwei," I answered proudly.
"Last name?"
"Uh..." I blinked. Right. That was a thing. Names with attachments. Humans and their complexities. Sigh.
"Shiwei," I repeated, thinking that maybe it could work as a single, grand name. Like a legend. The one and only Shiwei.
Horace gave me a look. "Dude. Your last name."
"Oh. Right. Uh... Park?" I offered, remembering the disaster from Mrs. Henderson's house. The poor park sign had sealed my fate. Might as well commit.
"Shiwei Park," Horace typed, though his face twitched in amusement. "Sure, let's go with that."
"Sounds Korean," Yue noted.
"But his first name is Chinese," Horace added.
"Then we throw him into Vietnam," Yue declared with a resigned wave of her hand. "It's a compromise."
"Vietnam it is!" Horace grinned, typing furiously.
"Next question," he continued. "Age?"
"Eons," I answered without hesitation. "Give or take a few millennia."
Yue nearly choked on her drink. "You're not putting that!"
"Why not? It's accurate."
"Because 'Eons' will get you a psych evaluation, not a job," she snapped.
"Fine," I huffed dramatically. "24. That seems reasonable for someone as youthful as I am."
Horace typed it in with a sigh. "24 it is. Now, job experience?"
"Time Warden."
"No."
"Master of Temporal Realms?"
"Absolutely not."
"Fixer of Cosmic Mishaps?"
"Oh for the love of—" Yue leaned over, forcefully deleting my suggestions. "We're putting 'Customer Service Experience.' That's it."
"But I don't have any."
"You served yourself to the dogs. That's close enough."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she shot me a glare so fierce I felt like the cosmos themselves trembled. I wisely chose silence.
"Next," Horace continued. "Skills?"
"Manipulating time, obviously."
Yue's face was a perfect picture of exasperation. "No."
"Okay, okay. Uh... I can lift heavy objects?"
"We'll call that 'physical endurance.'" Horace smirked, clearly entertained.
"And I can see countless possibilities across the vast expanse of time."
"We're writing 'strong problem-solving skills,'" Yue deadpanned.
After several more torturous questions—where I may or may not have tried convincing them I was proficient in 'worm diplomacy'—Horace reached the final part.
"References?"
"Mrs. Henderson?" I suggested hopefully.
"Yeah, because the woman who watched you declare war on a garden hose will definitely vouch for you," Yue snorted.
"Maybe we'll just skip that part," Horace muttered, rapidly clicking through the form. "And... done!"
"Finally!" I declared, triumphantly raising my arms. "I am reborn! A productive member of society!"
"Don't push it," Yue said, though I caught the hint of amusement on her face.
But the triumph was short-lived. Horace gave me a long, knowing look. "You do realize you also need an ID, right?"
"An... ID?"
"Identification," Yue clarified, rubbing her temples. "You know, something that proves you exist?"
"I exist perfectly fine without one, thank you very much."
Horace rolled his eyes. "Well, now you need one."
"We'll forge it," Yue said flatly.
"Oh, that's reassuring," I grumbled.
"You're welcome," she shot back.
"Anything else?" I crossed my arms, daring the universe to throw another task my way.
"Birth certificate, social security number, and maybe a bank account," Horace listed, grinning.
I slumped back in the chair. "I'm starting to think newspapers weren't so bad."
"Too late," Yue declared. "You're in it now."
And just like that, I had a shiny new resume, a questionable identity, and a mounting sense of dread. Tomorrow, Fried Chicken Heaven would witness my glorious return!
Or my swift demise...
Either way, I blamed the smartphone and ofcourse his wicked older brother, laptop for whatever might happen.