"Come in." A gruff voice called.
David pushed the door open and stepped inside. Behind a heavy oak desk sat a man of smaller stature—not quite short, but nowhere near tall either. Maybe five-foot-six at most. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and a crisp white dress shirt, his back pressed against a plush black leather office chair that seemed to swallow him whole.
"Oh, it's you," the man said, his tone flat and unsurprised.
"You called for me, sir?" David replied, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The manager regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he slid something across the desk.
"Take it and get out."
David's heart sank. He stepped forward and picked up the slip of paper—a check. His eyes scanned down to the amount: $120.
"That's for last month," the manager continued. "And since this month is already over, I'll be lenient."
David clutched the check, his mind racing. That was it. He was being fired. Again.
"Please, sir," he began, his voice strained. "I really need this job. I didn't mean to come in late today. Something came up and—"
"I really don't care." The manager's words were sharp, final. "I have a set of rules here. Rules that keep this business running. I don't tolerate tardiness—I've repeated this time without number. You're fired. Get out."
There was no room for discussion. No appeal. The man's expression remained carved in stone.
David knew better than to argue. His boss had a reputation—he'd fired people without paying them a single cent before. The fact that David was getting anything at all was a small mercy, though it didn't feel like one.
"Thank you for everything," David said quietly, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.
He turned and left the office, pulling the door shut behind him. The click of the latch felt like the closing of a chapter.
Waiting in the hallway, just as he'd expected, were Javier and Norman. Their grins were wide and triumphant.
"So, how did it go, David?" Norman called out, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Will we still be seeing your ugly face around here?"
David inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep his composure. Then, without a word, he walked past them.
They followed, of course. They always did. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, their mocking voices trailing behind him like vultures circling a dying animal. David didn't give them the satisfaction of a response. He pushed through the back door and out into the fading afternoon light.
The cab dropped him off a few blocks from the bank. David cashed the check, watching the teller count out the bills with mechanical efficiency. One hundred and twenty dollars. It wasn't much, but it was something.
By the time he made it back to his neighborhood, the sun was beginning its descent. The cab had dropped him off at the main road, so he walked the rest of the way. As he passed the small corner supermarket, he paused.
Right. He was out of food.
He checked his wallet. Twenty dollars in cash—everything else was in his account, earmarked for rent and school fees he couldn't afford to touch. He stepped inside and bought as many packs of instant noodles as the money would allow. It would have to last him the week.
On his way home, David stopped at the old bridge that spanned the canal. He leaned against the railing and stared down at the dark water below, watching it flow steadily beneath him. This had become a ritual of sorts—a moment to breathe, to think, to exist without the weight of the world pressing down on him.
Twenty minutes passed before he finally pulled himself away and continued home.
"You're back early," a voice called out as he climbed the stairs to his apartment.
His neighbor—a young man who worked construction—stood in his doorway, wiping grease from his hands with a rag.
"Yeah," David replied. "Something came up."
He unlocked his door and stepped inside, not bothering to turn on the lights. He collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling as exhaustion washed over him.
Two hours later, David's eyes snapped open. He sat up groggily, rubbing his face as he tried to shake off the fog of sleep. His hand fumbled for his phone before he remembered—it was gone. He glanced at the small clock on his bedside table.
5:23 PM.
"Oh no!" He bolted upright. "I overslept again! What's going on with me today?!"
He rushed to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and threw on his clothes. His second job—his night shift at the club—started at six. He couldn't afford to lose this one too.
David burst out of his apartment and ran. A full kilometer to the main road, lungs burning, legs screaming in protest. He flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address, praying he wouldn't hit traffic.
By the time he arrived, it was 6:12 PM—just a few minutes late. He waved at the bouncers stationed outside, both of whom knew him by now, and hurried inside.
The club was already alive with energy. Bass throbbed through the walls, and colored lights swept across the dance floor where bodies moved in rhythm. David headed straight for the changing room, but before he could reach it, his supervisor appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, looking distinctly annoyed.
"Good evening," David said with an awkward smile. "Traffic again."
The supervisor waved off the excuse entirely. "Get dressed quickly and head to booth five. Someone requested you."
David frowned. "Requested me? Specifically?"
"Yeah. A VIP booth. Now move."
The supervisor disappeared down the hallway, leaving David standing there confused. VIP booths were usually handled by the senior staff. Why would someone request him?
He changed quickly—white dress shirt, black waistcoat, pressed black pants. He combed his hair, grabbed a menu, and made his way through the club.
The general area was packed. Disco lights swirled overhead, painting the crowd in shifting hues of blue, purple, and red. The music pounded, relentless and hypnotic. David weaved through the chaos and climbed the stairs to the VIP section.
Booth five was at the end of the hallway. David paused outside the door, taking a deep breath. The stress of the day was catching up with him—the lost phone, the firing, the exhaustion. But he couldn't let it show. He forced a smile onto his face and pushed the door open.
What he saw inside made his blood run cold.
Two people sat on the leather couch, locked in a kiss. As the door clicked shut behind him, they pulled apart and turned to look at him.
David's heart stopped.
"Eveline," he whispered.
It was her. His ex-girlfriend. The girl he'd loved more than anything. And beside her, wearing an infuriatingly smug smile, was his cousin Travis.
"David?" Eveline's eyes widened in shock. She glanced at Travis, who gave her an innocent shrug.
"What's wrong?" Travis said, his voice dripping with false cheer. "You wanted to order something, didn't you? He's the waiter we requested."
His eyes slid to David, cold and calculating.
Eveline turned back to David, her expression pained. "Um, David, this wasn't intentional, okay? We didn't—"
"What can I get you, ma'am?" David interrupted, his voice flat and professional. He stepped further into the booth, notepad in hand, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.
Eveline's face fell. "Um..."
Travis leaned back against the couch, spreading his arms wide. "Now that's no way to talk to an old friend, David. Come on, this is a reunion! Where's all the happiness? How have you been? What have you been up to?"
David's jaw clenched. He kept his eyes on his notepad, refusing to meet Travis's gaze.
"What do you want me to get you?" he repeated, his voice even colder than before.
The smile on Travis's face widened. He was enjoying this.
And David knew, with a sinking certainty, that this night was about to get much, much worse.