Karl had expected his first shift at the fast-food joint to be miserable, but he hadn't expected it to be this miserable.
The moment he stepped into the staff area, the scent of fryer oil and artificial cheese hit him like a truck. The clatter of the kitchen, the constant beeping of machines, and the muffled complaints of customers all blended into an unholy symphony of suffering.
The fast-food joint was exactly what he had expected—hot, chaotic, and filled with the sounds of beeping machines, shouting customers, and the occasional sizzle of fryer oil hitting skin.
His manager, Molly Picket, had welcomed him in her own way: a smirk, a raised eyebrow, and a simple, "Hope you like suffering, kid."
Karl wasn't sure if she was joking or if this place had genuinely broken her spirit.
His coworkers were a mixed bag.
