*Beep, beep, beep*
The alarm shattered the silence, its shrill insistence wrenching him from restless sleep. He slapped it off with a groan, rolling onto his back as his spine cracked like a rusted hinge.
A flick of the light switch brought the dim bulb overhead to life, its yellow glow barely illuminating the cramped apartment. Clean to a fault—no dust, no mold, no stray items on the floor—yet no amount of order could mask the peeling paint, warped floorboards, and the oppressive weight of age clinging to the space.
Yawning, he shuffled to the bathroom, tugging off his rumpled shirt and shorts along the way.
In the mirror, the man looked like he went to hell and back. Scars mapped his face and body like a patterned quilt. His ears were nicked, his nose crooked, his teeth uneven, with a canine missing altogether. An overgrown eyelid drooped over his left eye, dimming his vision, while his wild, unkempt curls made it seem like he'd been struck by lightning. His green eyes, dull and hollow, looked as though they were dead.
His frame was solid—a strongman's build, with thick arms and legs supporting a belly just toned enough to not look overweight.
He grunted, running a hand through his hair. "I really hate those fuckers," he muttered, his voice low and cold.
He brushed his teeth mechanically, his gaze never leaving the man in the mirror, and pulled on his red-and-black uniform. Another day in the grind. Another fight to survive. He collected his keys, helmet, phone, and bike lock, ready to head out the door.
He swung it open—and immediately regretted it. Sheets of rain pelted the ground, driven sideways by fierce gusts of wind. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the street for a brief, dazzling second. The low rumble of thunder followed, rolling over the neighborhood like an angry growl.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath, slamming the door shut.
A moment of hesitation passed before he sighed and headed to the kitchen. He yanked a fresh trash bag from under the sink, shook it out, and carefully tore a hole for his head and arms. Slipping it over himself, he gave the makeshift poncho a dubious glance in the mirror. The plastic crinkled with every move, syncing with his steps.
" Better than nothing I guess, but if I get my hands on the person who stole my raincoat..." as he trailed off grabbing his helmet and stepping back into the storm.
He had previously left his coat hanging at work, only to find it gone when he was done with his shift
Outside there was a bike that matched its owner. It's body completely brown as rust ate away at the frame and gears. The seats inner stuffing spilling, its wheels missing a few spokes, and the handle bars missing their protective rubber coating.
He went ahead and braved the storm as he biked for 1 hour and 30 minutes to reach work.
He entered into a famous fried chicken place, his shoes squelching as he walked on the tile floors. The few customers waiting for their food glanced up, their gazes lingering a moment too long on his face. Whispers followed, their curiosity thinly veiled by uneasy glances.
Ignoring them, he strode behind the counter and pushed through the door to the back. There, he peeled off his makeshift poncho and hung it on a hook before pulling on a hair net. He scrubbed his hands under warm water for 45 seconds using the bear claw technique, then slid on a pair of gloves.
Work began. The hours blurred as he moved between the fryer and the breader, the heat of the kitchen a sharp contrast to the chill that had soaked into his bones. The steady hum of the fryers and the beep of timers filled the air, a mechanical noise machine that remined one to keep pace.
Five hours later, the door swung open, and another worker walked in. He had greasy black hair that clung to his scalp, an oblong face, and thin glasses perched on a nose that seemed almost too narrow for his face. His wiry frame was almost swallowed by the oversized uniform.
"Hey, Li," the newcomer called out, grinning. "Still as ugly as ever, huh?" He paused, his grin widening passing by Li.
"It's like looking into a mirror, isn't it Will?" Li said with a indifferent expression. Focusing on the task at hand.
Will not turning around "If my memory serves, you already used that phrase last month, getting lazy are we?" putting on a hair net and gloving up, skipping the handwashing phase.
"I do not have the want, will, or time to research and create new quips to continue on this nonsensical banter." as Li lowered the chicken into the vat with a sizzle.
Will proceeding to lift a fry bag from a box " Then why talk to me at all?" questioned Will.
"It is to build a relationship with coworkers so they can support me in the event of false accusations, and to show other people that I am to be socialized with, boosting their positive perception of me." while raising the chicken from the boiling oil.
"Sounds like you have had some nasty encounters with people, am I right?" Will questioned as he turned around with a slightly somber expression.
"You could account it as that." Li stated still focused on his task, not turning to face the recipient of his statement.
Will noticing that Li did not turn to face him, as he often does, turned back around and continued with his work. "Well, at least you have me, I will vouch for your so called false accusations." stated Will with a hint of empathy.
"Thank you for your positive words." Li said with a hint of happiness in his voice.
*3 Hours Later*
The manager leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes avoiding Li's. He was a short man with a perpetually sour expression, his balding head gleaming under the kitchen's fluorescent lights.
"You don't mesh well with the team," the manager said, his tone clipped. "Customers complain about your... demeanor. You're scaring them off."
Li's green eyes narrowed. "Scaring them off how? Is there a specific incident you're referring to?"
The manager sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Li, I don't have time for this. You're intimidating. Your face, the way you talk—people don't feel comfortable around you."
Li's jaw tightened, his gloved hands resting on the counter. He took a deep breath, forcing his tone to remain neutral. "I've never missed a shift. I come in early, leave late, and cover for others. If my appearance is the issue, that's discrimination, not performance."
The manager shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet his gaze. "It's not just your appearance. Your attitude—"
"Specifics," Li interrupted, his voice sharp. "Tell me what I said or did to warrant this."
The manager opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he muttered, "It's already done. HR approved it. Collect your things and leave."
Li stared at him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and walked to the back. The kitchen was quiet now, the hum of the fryers the only sound. Will watched him from across the room, his grin replaced with a rare look of concern.
"You okay, man?" Will asked, his voice unusually serious.
Li shrugged, peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. "Doesn't matter. Just another day."
He grabbed his makeshift poncho from the hook and shoved it onto his frame. As he stepped out into the storm, the cold rain hit his face like a slap, but he didn't flinch. His mind was already spinning, not understanding why this happens to him.
The rain hadn't let up by the time Li made it home, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin. His muscles ached from the hour-long ride, and the chill of the storm had seeped into his bones. He shoved his bike into the corner of the apartment, water pooling beneath it from the dripping frame.
He flicked on the dim light, its yellow glow making the peeling paint and warped floorboards seem even more oppressive. Tossing the soaked poncho into the sink, he grabbed a towel and dried himself off, his movements sharp and angry.
"Fired," he muttered, the word sour in his mouth. "Over some bullshit."
The manager's excuses replayed in his mind, each one more infuriating than the last. "Intimidating." "Demeanor." What did they want him to do? Smile and joke with people who barely looked him in the eye? People who whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear?
He clenched his fists, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The scars, the crooked nose, the hollow eyes—they were all there, mocking him. He punched the edge of the sink, the impact rattling his teeth and leaving his knuckles red.
"Worthless," he spat, his voice echoing in the empty apartment.
He didn't bother with dinner, collapsing onto the lumpy mattress in the corner. Sleep didn't come easily, his mind too busy cycling through frustration, shame, and the familiar weight of hopelessness.
The storm outside matched his mood, lightning flashing through the thin curtains and thunder rumbling like a growl in the distance. He stared at the cracked ceiling, his jaw tight.
"Something's gotta change," he muttered to himself, the words hanging in the air like a promise—or a threat.
Eventually, exhaustion won out, pulling him into a restless sleep. But even in dreams, the bitterness lingered, twisting his subconscious into a maze of dark alleys and accusing voices.