I hate closing time on Sundays. Honestly, I despise it with every bone in my body. Not even the tomatoes and cheese glued to my apron, not even the smell of burnt crust and garlic that clings to my skin like some unwanted perfume, not even the constant need to entertain those nagging customers, matches up to what infuriates me the most. What boils my blood, what leaves me weary, frustrated, and bitter, is the fact that I know what's coming. Like clockwork, like death and taxes, it comes.
"Argh, here we go again," I mutter, slouching near the counter, running my greasy hands over my face. "A couple of guys moving towards the shop, and not the friendly kind. These loan sharks, their thugs, their stupid smug grins—always here at closing hours, week by week, like it's some kind of Sunday tradition. They don't even need pizza; they just need to spit venom, to see us heartbroken, to see Uncle Ten reduced to pleading. And gah, I hate it."
I glance at the door. My chest tightens. "Look at them. Huge. Twice my size. Muscles like they were carved from stone, pale skin stretched over their bones, faces empty of love or compassion. And yet… I've made up my mind. I will not let it slide. Not today. I've been weary too long. I've bit the bullet too many times. Tonight, I… I'll bite back."
My hand shoots instinctively to my back. My fingertips search, desperate. "Wait—where's my dagger? Oh no. No, no, no. This can't be. I summoned the dagger for this purpose only. To showcase my defiance and stand tall. And now? My hand grabs nothing. Just an empty cloth. What am I supposed to do now? My trembling body is good for nothing in situations like these."
A shove interrupts me.
"Make way, you goofy kid!"
My body collides with a table. Plates jump, silverware clatters, and I crash down, ribs aching, pride shattered.
"Hey! Stop it!"
Uncle Ten bursts from behind the counter, apron stained with oil, his hands shaking but his voice fierce. "You need your money? Fine, I'll give it to you. But your boss made one promise—you never lay a hand on my family."
The thug sneers. His eyes are cold, his smirk nauseating. "Well, old man, you haven't paid for this week. So until you're done paying us, I guess we can play with your little pig over there." His head tilts toward me.
"No. No. Okay—here it is!" Uncle Ten fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a crumpled envelope. "Take it. Leave now. Get out of my shop right away."
The biggest of them steps closer. He is pale as chalk, his face like a skull half-buried in flesh. "Nice doing business with you." His voice is crushing deep, like rocks tumbling down a cliff. He gestures. "Come on, boys. We are off to the next man."
I drag myself up. My knees wobble, my back aches, but I stand. Defiance burns even through pain.
Uncle Ten slumps into a chair, burying his face in his hands. "Winter, it's all my fault. If I had not been in huge debt, maybe this weekly humiliation wouldn't be a thing. Maybe you wouldn't be thrown around like some ragdoll."
"No, Uncle Ten. Never blame yourself for problems others create. You're not the villain here."
But my heart whispers something darker. That line isn't for the thugs. It's for me. I'm the problem. I orchestrated everything, tried to summon strength, and still I messed up. Always messing up.
I stagger into the bathroom near the entrance, clutching my stomach. The fluorescent light flickers above me. I yank open a drawer.
"There you are," I breathe, staring down at the blade. My heart leaps. "How could I forget you? How could I be such a fool? You are the reason why people tomorrow will see my talent as more than summoning heroes from another world. summoners can also become adventurers, I won't let society decide what I am supposed to be or not."
I lift the dagger high. It gleams, enchanted, its steel shimmering with a strange warmth. "Damn, you shine so much. You're more than a weapon. You're a companion. Summoning you was the best decision I ever made, but forgetting you… that was a grave mistake. You hear me? From now on, you'll be with me everywhere. School, shopping complex, even under this greasy apron. I don't care. I'll never be without you again."
The dagger hums faintly in my hand, and for a moment, I feel euphoric.
Bell hummed. Someone walks in.
"Winter, go look! Customers showed up!" Aunt April yells down the corridor, her voice sharp, weary but still affectionate.
"Who will it be this time?" I mutter, tucking the blade under my apron.
"Is the shop closing? Sorry—we're a little late."
A family enters. Mr. Bill, his wife Emily, and their two children. Their smiles are polite, but something about their eyes makes me anxious. Still, I slap a fist into the air. "Oh no! At Ten's Pizzeria, no customer goes hungry, even once in a blue moon when they arrive this late!"
They stare at me, confused. My body stiffens. Awkward silence chokes the air.
"Uncle, customers showed up. Get ready," I stammer.
"So, what would you like?" I ask, pulling out a notepad.
They flip through the menu cards slowly. My eyes dart between them, my nerves buzzing.
"You guys are new here, I assume?"
The husband looks weary of me, almost spooked, like he's seen a ghost. "Yes. You are right. We… we really liked your pizzas. They're really good."
His smile feels choreographed. Practiced. As if every word is rehearsed. Does he sense my blade hidden under the apron? What am I even thinking? They're just a couple. "Argh, I'm so stupid," I whisper under my breath.
"We would like pineapple pizza."
"Pineapple what?!" I practically leap. My voice cracks. "Yeah—uhm—sorry about that."
The woman frowns. "You should not make fun of people's preferences like that."
"Yes ma'am. I apologise." I scribble "pineapple pizza" in the ugliest handwriting, the scratching sound loud enough to make the kids wince.
In my head, I brood. This woman must want to offend me. Or maybe she just wants me gone. Her words felt rushed, like she was desperate for me to leave. Maybe I'm just annoying them.
When I return with their dish, Bill asks, "Is there any noble named Harshzip nearby?"
"Oh, Mr. Harshzip? To the east from here, two kilometers away, I believe," I answer, blinking.
Why do they want to meet a nobleman? Just who are they? They dress like commoners, yet something in their voices carries weight, like they're carrying secrets that cost an arm and a leg.
"Winter! You have to go to school now. Go to sleep!" Aunt April barges in, voice firm, body tense with motherly frustration. "I am not taking no for an answer. Go away right now, young man."
"Okay, okay." I raise my hands, pretending surrender.
My aunt worries too much. Always anxious, always hovering. And I get it. They lost Marco, their only son. Drafted into the war, never came back. His absence sits like a ghost at every table. His room was untouched. His photo, framed above the counter, was always avoided. That void has gnawed at them for years. And maybe that's why they cling to me, why they see me as someone worth protecting, worth moulding.
But me? I don't want to be Marco. I don't want to just burn the midnight oil at some school, or hit the hay knowing I'll wake up to flip pizzas for life. I don't want to be tied down, to call it a day with someone else's dream.
No. I want to forge my own path. Not someone else's. My name is Winter Williamson. And with this dagger in my hand, almost alive, I swear the ball is in my court now. My path as an adventurer has already begun.