A young man dragged a black bag through a dark alley, sweat trickling from his brown hair, strain reflected in his pale black eyes. The unpleasant chore he put himself through had already exerted most of his strength, all that was left was to finish the job. Light appeared before Mark as he approached the dumpster behind the local diner, where he could finally free himself from his fat burden.
Opening the dumpster, the young man used both hands to lift the giant bag and with a stifled groan threw it into the dumpster.
Mark was finally free from the corpse.
"Good riddance, broke bastard!"
He froze for a second, afraid he had just given himself away, then turned around and walked around the corner of the restaurant, unwilling to remain in the area a second more. While he had just called the corpse broke, Mark himself was in no position to speak, the wallet taken from the man he had killed nearly tripling his savings.
Then again, the overweight drunk probably got the money from extorting and threatening people, making the idea of being his killer almost, just nearly acceptable.
While leaving the isolated alley the sight of people rushing across the street entered his eyes, resembling a horde of restless specters with no destination in mind. He took a deep breath to relieve his remaining stress, only to enter a coughing fit when the pestilent, familiar odor of sludge overwhelmed his nose.
He grumbled and started walking while throwing a look at the tip of one of the many factories in the city. Smog rose from it like a giant cigar, rising and covering the sky, forming something akin to fog, only much more unpleasant. Sacrifices had to be made, terrible air quality for cheaper clothing prices, and more importantly: jobs.
Every morning a mob forms around the factory doors where a lucky few are chosen to participate in tedious, back-breaking labor. After all, that was one of the few ways to earn enough money in the broken economy. The factory owners themselves are probably living in luxury with the never-ending supply of exploitable workers. With envy and necessity, the normal person was probably stuck deciding between breaking the bones or sucking up to their bosses.
Mark had no such problems with finding work. After all, he was one of the Blessed.
Though the government was constantly searching for people like him the abilities that he was given allowed Mark to thrive among the masses despite the dying economy and the constant shortage of food. Essentially, he would be able to live his whole life in peace so long as he doesn't act like an idiot.
The constant drafts were not a problem either since the military usually picked from the bottom rungs of society first, such as those from the mobs crowding the factory entrance every morning. Educated people who have stable jobs are protected from the drafts, at least for now.
'At least all those lectures at the university had some use.'
Lost in thought, Mark stumbled on the pavement and fell on his face, narrowly missing a puddle of grime. He got up while feeling the glances of those passing him, too busy to linger yet bored enough to enjoy his plight.
Embarrassment overtook him as he got up and walked until reaching the corner of an intersection, where a modestly clean building awaited him.
The setting sun was positioned in such a way that the entrance to the building was illuminated with a pleasant splendor. The wooden doors made a homely squeak when Mark opened them and stepped into his job at the bar.
He nearly grimaced as he saw a tough old man at the counter with a freshly steaming bowl, the owner of the bar, Royce.
"Good evening boss... it seems you found some inspiration."
"Took you long enough. You know the drill, get your ass over here!"
The old man was an excellent cook, everything he served in his establishment was top-notch, and while working under him one can see the true essence of cooking: trial and an abhorrent amount of errors.
"What exactly is this?"
The old man scoffed.
"Stop glaring at the damn thing, I'm not poisoning you."
Mark glanced at his boss with uncertainty, while he might have forcibly tugged at the old man's pity when begging for the job, he didn't expect the hell that would await him afterward. Perhaps this is a form of divine retribution.
A creamy broth awaited him with shrimp and an assortment of herbs neatly floating in the center, a visually enticing dish for sure, likely a variant of shrimp bisque.
Slowly taking a spoonful of the bisque and raising it to his mouth, Mark hesitated for the slightest moment before accepting his fate.
A rich, creamy flavor with subtle hints of scallops spread throughout his mouth, the broth brought a soothing warmth. However, a spiciness opposed every other component of the dish, rising from subtle, to overwhelming, and finally having an unbearable intensity that left him reeling for water.
He looked back at the bisque with dread.
"Too much spice"
Pretending to squint in pain, Mark concentrated and reached out with his mind, and directed his attention towards his boss. Then, he brought forth sentiments of disappointment and doubt.
He then watched as his boss fearlessly swallowed a spoonful of the bisque and savored all of its taste, a chilling yet humbling sight considering how intense it was. The old man was probably accustomed to such pains.
"I guess there is a bit too much heat"
Royce returned to the kitchen as Mark intensified the old man's determination to perfect the dish, watching as his motions began to give off an air of confidence.
"Good luck boss! And please, take as much time as you need."
Even though the old man views him as a compliant guinea pig, he can still direct his boss to a great extent.
Manipulators will always give their victims an illusion of control.