The alarm on Ren's phone didn't buzz; it rattled—a dying sound from a screen cracked in three different directions.
4:00 AM.
Ren pushed himself off the thin mattress that sat directly on the floor. His back flared with a dull, familiar ache. He didn't have time to stretch. If he missed the 4:22 bus, he'd lose the "early bird" bonus at the shipping docks, and that bonus was the only reason they had milk in the fridge.
By 6:00 AM, Ren was a ghost in a high-visibility vest.
"Hey, Pretty Boy! Keep your eyes on the crate, not the reflection in the puddle!" the foreman barked, his voice echoing through the cold, damp warehouse.
A group of older dockworkers laughed, their eyes traveling over Ren's slender frame with a mix of pity and mockery. To them, Ren was an anomaly—a boy with a face like a porcelain doll doing the back-breaking labor of a mule.
"Shouldn't you be on a billboard somewhere, kid?" one of them jeered, spitting on the concrete near Ren's boots. "This work is for men, not runway models. Move the damn pallet!"
Ren didn't look up. He didn't bite back. He couldn't afford to be fired. He just heaved the wooden crate, the splinters digging into his palms through his worn-out gloves. He stayed in that warehouse until his shirt was translucent with sweat and his lungs tasted like diesel exhaust.
1:00 PM.
Ren's second shift was at L'Avenue, a high-end bistro three miles away. He didn't have money for the second bus, so he ran.
He arrived breathless, ducking into the alleyway to swap his grime-stained vest for a crisp, white server's shirt. He scrubbed his face with cold tap water in the staff bathroom, trying to hide the dark circles under his eyes with sheer willpower.
"You're late, Ren," the manager said, not even looking up from his clipboard. "One more time, and you're out. There's a line of students begging for this spot."
"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
The shift was a gauntlet of humiliation. Ren moved between tables of people his own age—people who wore watches that cost more than his father's entire debt.
"Excuse me," a girl in a silk blouse chirped, looking at Ren with a sneer of disgust. "There's a smudge on this wine glass. Honestly, do you people even wash these, or are you too busy daydreaming?"
Ren bowed his head, the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. "I am so sorry, miss. Let me get you a fresh one."
"Maybe he's just distracted by his own reflection," her boyfriend chuckled, loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear.
"It's hard to focus on chores when you look like that, right?"
Ren took the glass, his hand trembling. don't be weak, he said to himself. He felt like an animal in a zoo—judged for his poverty, mocked for the face he hadn't asked for. He spent the afternoon being snapped at, tipped in pennies, and treated like a piece of the furniture.
8:30 PM.
His third job was the worst. Cleaning the "Golden Dragon" casino after the high-rollers left.
It was a world of velvet and stale smoke. Ren spent hours on his knees, scrubbing drink stains out of the carpet and picking up discarded betting slips.
He was emptying a trash bin near the VIP lounge when he felt it. That prickly, uncomfortable sensation of being watched.
He looked up, scanning the darkened glass of the private booths above the casino floor. He saw nothing but his own tired reflection in the mirrors. But the feeling didn't go away. It was heavy. Intense. Like a physical weight pressing on his neck.
"Ren! Stop staring at the ceiling and finish the floors!" the janitorial lead shouted.
Ren looked down, his heart tripping over a beat for a reason he couldn't explain. He grabbed his mop, dipping it into the grey, soapy water.
He didn't know that three stories above him, behind one-way glass, a man was sitting in the dark. He didn't know that a man was leaning forward, a glowing cigar forgotten in an ashtray, watching the way Ren's hair fell over his eyes as he worked.
He didn't know that his name was already being whispered in a boardroom across town.
Ren only knew that his feet hurt, his father was waiting at home for money he didn't have, and the world felt like it was slowly crushing him into the dirt.
He walked home in the rain, his shoes leaking, unaware that this was the last night he would ever be "nobody."
Somewhere in the city, a file was closed. A decision was made.
The hunter had found his prey.