"You need to work."
He said it with a serious voice, still focused on squeezing his anxiety stress balls.
I chuckled to myself for a couple of seconds because I honestly thought he was joking.
"Why are you laughing?"
He looked offended.
"You should really try stand-up and leave your managerial job, because you are one funny kid. And you suck at your job."
I kept laughing.
He just sat there, quiet, waiting for me to finish. Since he didn't say anything, I assumed he was joking. I mean, it was my day off — one of the few days I barely ever got.
"I'm serious. You need to come to work. And though it may sound like I'm begging you, I'm not. I'm actually ordering you."
His facial expression changed.
"Excuse me?"
Something in me flipped. I had that familiar feeling most employees get — the one where you imagine climbing over the desk and strangling your boss. That's how I felt in that moment. I was already mad, and this kid had the guts to say this to me, on this day, when I shouldn't even be here.
"You heard me. Get your old ass to work. Now."
He leaned toward his desk, trying to intimidate me.
He may have been the boss — the one signing my checks, which were way below even a minimal wage — but after reading a Discord thread earlier, my anger was already boiling.
The fans on that thread were talking about wages.
Fanbate: Man, I can't believe the author just disappeared on us like that.
Spice King: Yeah bro, I just caught up on all the chapters. Why would he do this to us?
Red Hot: Maybe he wasn't earning enough. I read somewhere that webnovel authors don't make much. Top ones make like $500–$1,000 per book per month.
Fanbate: Whoa, he earns that much? I don't even make half and I work as a clerk.
Red Hot: Really? How much do you make an hour?
Fanbate: $7.25 an hour.
Spice King: Man get outta here. No one earns that little anymore.
Meanwhile, I was earning $2.13 an hour.
That alone fueled my rage.
And here I was sitting next to the person responsible for that. My fists clenched under the desk.
"What about Gracy? It's her day today."
I asked, already knowing the response would smell like it came straight out of a horse's ass.
"Well, Gracy needed time off because I needed her for something very important."
He grinned mischievously.
Really?
Our store wasn't big, but it got enough customers to make money. Yet this cheap kid only hired three people for a store that needed at least seven.
Me.
Gracy — his lazy girlfriend.
And Carl — an old man way past retirement age, whom he made security.
I knew exactly what "important" meant: he wanted Gracy off so she could get ready for whatever kinky nonsense they were planning.
"So if I take her place, what does that mean for me?"
I tried to control my anger. My foot was already tapping.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do I get her pay for today?"
Now I was serious.
He stared at me, trying to scare me into backing down. But when he saw I wasn't budging, he chuckled nervously.
"Why would you get her pay? She's the one who's supposed to work. You're just standing in for her, so it's technically her shift."
Say what?
My mind spun like I'd been hit with a brick.
I pushed my chair back and stood. He may have been the boss, but I was older — and at that moment, I was ready to give him the ass-whooping of his life.
I planted my fists on his desk and leaned in. He was shaking.
From the look in his eyes, I realized I wasn't even mad at him — I was projecting. So I took a deep breath and headed for the door.
"If you leave without working today, don't bother coming back tomorrow, because you're fired!"
He had the audacity to threaten me.
I stopped before leaving, turned, and gave him a deadly stare.
"Fine."
As much as I wanted to be cool and stand up for myself like some protagonist, I couldn't. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I'd accepted my life was a terrible sitcom with no comedy.
But I did slam the door so hard that the room shook, and his fake certificates rattled — certificates he probably bought online, considering he couldn't actually do half the things they claimed.
Even the store itself was a walking health-code violation. It was a miracle we were still open.
Our grocery store also sold clothes nobody recognized, appliances from brands no one could pronounce, and tools that were definitely made by someone with a personal vendetta against safety.
If this were a sci-fi zombie movie, our store would be the epicenter of the outbreak.
Because trust me, there were rooms marked "employees only" that even we employees weren't allowed to enter.
I went to my locker because of his ultimatum. Maybe I seemed scared, threatened by someone twenty years younger. But I was forty-five. Who was going to hire someone my age? I was creeping toward a mid-life crisis and dementia.
I pulled out my apron — the everyday unnecessary torture device. My locker jammed most days, taking me thirty minutes to open. He'd deduct fifty percent of my pay as a "lesson."
When I'd tell him to fix it?
"It costs money to fix things, and the store has no money."
Yet he drove a hundred-grand car no one else in the country had.
I'd found a trick to open my locker, and today it only took three minutes.
I sat at the counter, bored out of my mind. Tuesdays were never busy. Phones were also confiscated because he claimed they "distracted us," even though the only one constantly distracted was Gracy — or "Gravy," according to her nametag.
I read an ancient magazine — probably the first issue ever printed.
Then I walked around checking the "quality products." Everything seemed fine. Not that I cared. I wasn't paid enough to.
I talked to Carl to pass time. He napped every five minutes.
"Hey Carl, I'm going to lunch. Want me to get you something?"
He woke up slowly.
"Just get me something to soothe my gums."
He wasn't joking. Carl was down to two teeth, both hanging on for dear life.
As I was getting ready to go out, a beautiful older couple walked in. They looked like tourists with matching hats, shirts, sandals, pamphlets — the whole package.
"Morning, young man," the woman said. "Could you show us to a place called the Dancing Fountain?"
They looked sweet.
"Oh, let me show you," I offered.
I let Carl know, then stepped outside and helped them find directions. This neighborhood was awful, so I wanted to ensure they were safe.
After nearly an hour, they finally understood.
"Thank you, my son. Here — this is for you."
The husband pulled out a stack of cash. Maybe a thousand.
"Oh, I can't take that."
I pushed his hand back.
"No, please. You've been such a help. Don't offend us by refusing."
He insisted. And the way they looked at me, I couldn't refuse.
I accepted the money.
I bought Carl something to "soothe his gums" — code for a cold beer — then returned to my spot.
The rest of the day was dead.
By night, street lights glowed. Just when I was about to leave, my boss called me into his office.
"Yeah?" I stepped in.
"Give it to me."
He held out his hand.
"Give what?"
He turned his laptop around — showing the video of me pocketing the money earlier.
"So?"
"You know tips belong to the store," he said. "So hand it over."
He looked at my pocket.
"No."
I stood my ground.
"It's my money."
"It can't be your money. It belongs to the store — which means it belongs to me."
He tried to search me.
I snapped. I shoved him and he tumbled over his desk.
"You pushed me! How dare you lay your hands on me?!"
He acted like a victim.
"Why were you searching me?" I asked.
He touched his nose dramatically, pretending I'd punched him.
"Give me the money or you're fired!"
Something in me switched. I'd had enough.
"Here — keep it. And don't worry about me. I quit."
I threw the money at his face and walked out.
It was the bravest — and stupidest — thing I'd done. How was I going to pay rent now?
Those questions swirled in my mind as I walked home.
Then I heard someone crying for help.
I ran toward the sound — an alley.
"Hey! What are you doing?!"
A woman was being robbed. This was my hero moment. So I jumped in.
"Leave her alone!"
I fought the man off, pushed him, punched him. The woman fell and cried.
I turned to check on her — but something slammed into my head.
Blood poured down my face as I collapsed. My vision blurred.
Through the haze, I saw the man standing next to the woman — who was suddenly calm.
"Look out…" I tried to warn myself, but it was too late.
"You got him good, love," the man said.
"Thank you," she giggled.
My vision cleared for a second — and I recognized them.
The same couple from earlier.
"Now to finish the job," the man said, pulling a gun from her purse.
"Please let me do it. It's been a while," she asked sweetly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, darling."
He handed her the gun.
She pointed it at me and fired twice — once in the chest, once in the head.
Everything went blank.
And just like that…
I died.