"My ___ will kill me."
Though Victor had left the sentence hanging, the two women pieced it together almost instantly.
Atlanta figured it out because she knew Igor, the café's boss. She frequented the place almost every other day since it was near her college.
Igor was a man in his late forties with a shiny, bald head and it always amused her how all the hair seemingly abandoned his scalp for other territories.
Cayla, though unfamiliar with Igor, quickly put two and two together:
A barista chatting with customers for ten minutes? That could only lead to trouble, unless Victor came up with a good excuse—or a convincing lie.
"Sorry for keeping you so long," Atlanta said, instinctively blaming herself for the situation. If Victor were to lose his job over this, she knew she'd carry the guilt.
But Victor didn't look concerned about getting fired.
Instead, he stood there awkwardly, like a coat waiting to be hung.
The women, unsure why he lingered, exchanged a brief glance.
"Victor. Go," Atlanta said, her tone firm but sympathetic. "Get back to work, and don't mind us, okay?"
Victor snapped out of his trance. "Ah, sorry, sorry. Enjoy the rest of your stay, ladies." He turned to Cayla and added with a slight bow, "Cayla."
And with that, he returned to the counter, his hands busying themselves with dishes and other menial tasks.
---
"Victor. Victor, Victor!"
The voice cut through the ambient guitar music like a gravelly storm.
It was Igor. He had been waiting for Victor to return so he could chew him out away from the ears of customers. The café's well-placed speakers ensured discretion for such moments.
Victor turned to face his boss, his face paling as though he'd just encountered a ghost—or become one.
Igor, standing there, looked every bit like a gorilla. His build was brawny, arms as thick as Victor's thighs and his stomach, his stomach protruded revealing a jungle of interlocked hair.
If evolution ever had a spokesperson, Igor could single-handedly prove its truth.
"Sorry, boss. The ladies needed help with something," Victor mumbled, scratching the back of his head.
Igor, busy preparing a coffee, held a steam wand in his hand. The hiss of hot steam punctuated the air.
"What'd you say, boy?" Igor asked, raising an eyebrow.
Victor began to explain again, but with each word he spoke, Igor pulled the handle, releasing a burst of steam.
"So—"
Sssshhhhh.
"Sorry—"
Sssshhhhh.
After a few more attempts, Victor gave up. It wasn't worth trying to reason with someone who clearly wasn't listening. Besides, Victor knew he was in the wrong, and arguing wouldn't help his case.
Igor finally spoke, his tone a mix of irritation and condescension. "Kido, listen carefully. I'm only saying this once. I hired you despite having far better candidates—ones with actual experience, unlike you."
Victor nodded attentively, eager to show he was willing to learn and improve.
"You had a rough start, but I taught you everything you know now. And look at you—making coffee, serving customers, doing dishes, cleaning. You're like a cheetah, boy."
Victor almost smiled at the odd compliment, but Igor wasn't done.
"I raised you like you were my son," Igor continued, his voice taking on a self-righteous edge. "And I expect respect. Respect for me, respect for this job. Not wasting time flirting with girls, hoping to dip it in."
Victor's expression remained neutral, though internally, he flinched. Igor had completely misinterpreted the situation, but Victor didn't dare correct him, presumably.
"And another thing," Igor added, pointing a thick finger at him. "You're slow. Dumb. It took you an entire day to wash dishes, like you've got brain damage or something. Hell, my 98 year old Babushka is smarter and more functional."
Victor stayed silent, careful not to provoke him further.
What Igor failed to acknowledge—or perhaps purposefully ignored—was his own penchant for micromanaging. Whenever Victor completed a task efficiently, Igor would insist it wasn't good enough and make him redo it. There were nights Victor had to mop the floor five times before closing, all the while Igor stayed in the cafés basement with his "friends."
"Why are you standing there? Get back to work," Igor finally snapped, waving him off.
Victor nodded and returned to his tasks, his energy drained. It was no mystery why he was perpetually exhausted. Overworked and unofficially employed, he lacked any safety net—no insurance, no proper paycheck, and no way out.
But for now, all Victor could do was endure. Three more hours. Then he could go home and finally get some sleep.
...
Two hours passed. The TV in the corner of the establishment buzzed quietly, tuned to the news channel by default.
Igor sat alone at the table, an ashtray in front of him, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the air as his attention remained fixed on the screen.
The boy, as usual, mopped the floor, his gaze occasionally drifting to the wall clock and then back to his boss.
He had found Igor's behavior to be unusual today, a mix of nervous energy—no, fear.
It was unlike him to show such vulnerability. Perhaps that's why his mood swung unpredictably, one moment cordial, the next cold, before returning to a false politeness.
Only the faint glow of Victor's flashlight illuminated the boy's movements as he mopped, while the TV light spilled across Igor's bald head and glistened on his sweaty forehead.
"Breaking News: People across the country are reporting sightings of what they're calling 'The Devil's Gates,' strange phenomena appearing in random locations. The phenomenon has sparked a nationwide panic, with experts calling it mass hysteria - possibly orchestrated by religious fanatics."
The anchor's voice faltered slightly, as if unsure how seriously to take the reports.
"Authorities are working to contain the situation, offering fund incentives for mental health care facilities and such. But many citizens are convinced something otherworldly is happening. Of course, this has only fueled speculation."
A shift in tone followed as the scene cut to a group of anime fans gathered, arguing passionately with people, but more so with themselves.
Weeb 1 (cosplays green military-like clothes): "IT'S called a Gate, a portal to a new world. Oh I can't wait to be isekaid, I could find a Rory an elf..."
Random 1: "A gate? And what's a loly? Every day I realise we stray further from God..."
Weeb 2: "Na na it's something like Re:0 or mushoku—like uhm not gates but summons from different dimensions or parallel worlds. And I think it's the second. There's even theories about it made by-"
The camera panned back to the news anchor, now visibly uncomfortable, trying to regain control of the situation.
What type of answers did the news agencies expect, asking all these questions just a mile away from the nearest convention?
Meanwhile, the previously scared Igor had started laughing, even signaling for Victor to come and see. And Victor did.
But when he arrived, he didn't find it funny at all. Instead, he found it...