"Is this what you're calling clean?"
The supervisor's voice boomed through the bustling kitchen, cutting through the clatter of dishes and the sizzling of the grill. Draven didn't bother looking up from the stack of plates he was rinsing, but he could feel the man's beady eyes drilling holes into his back.
"Useless. If I wanted sloppiness, I'd hire a chimpanzee. Faster than you and probably smarter too."
Draven exhaled slowly, his knuckles tightening on the sponge. He resisted the urge to turn around and reply. Words weren't what his old self used to handle situations like this with. He forced a neutral tone.
"I'll do better."
"You better," the man sneered before stomping off.
Draven's lips twitched into a humorless smile. Better? Sure. Next time, I'll polish these plates with your face.
---
It was one of those days. Scratch that—it was all of those days rolled into one. The lunch rush was chaos incarnate, and somehow, it felt like every single customer in the restaurant had made it their life mission to test Draven's patience.
At one point, a middle-aged woman in an outrageously large hat stormed into the kitchen, bypassing waitstaff, and made a beeline straight for him. She waved an empty water glass in his face.
"Are you the one responsible for this… outrage?"
Draven blinked. "For your… glass?"
"For the fact that it's EMPTY!"
Before he could respond, she continued, "I'm paying good money to eat here, and I expect a certain standard of service! What kind of establishment is this where customers have to beg for basic things like water?"
Draven stared at her, mildly fascinated. She's really yelling about water. He forced a polite nod. "I'll get someone to fill it right away."
"Don't bother!" she snapped, turning on her heel. "I'll be speaking to your manager."
"Of course, ma'am," Draven called after her. "And maybe a therapist while you're at it."
---
The day didn't improve.
A coworker managed to knock over an entire pot of soup, splashing Draven's shirt in the process.
"Geez, watch it!" the coworker snapped, as if it were his fault.
Draven glanced at his soup-soaked reflection in the stainless steel counter and muttered under his breath, "Right. Clearly my shirt threw itself at the pot. Happens all the time."
---
By mid-afternoon, the customers were the least of his problems. The supervisor's insults had hit an all-time high, and Draven was running on sheer willpower to keep his demons leashed.
When a teenager at a corner table started pointing and laughing at him—loudly calling him "Dishwasher Boy"—Draven decided to focus on the one thing keeping him sane: the fact that he'd chosen this. He'd chosen to leave behind the violence, the bloodshed, the darkness.
He reminded himself, over and over, that this was his second chance.
Puppies don't bite. Puppies wag their tails. Just keep wagging.
---
The tipping point came when a customer, unsatisfied with his meal, barged into the kitchen. He was a broad-shouldered man with a face like thunder.
"Who the hell is responsible for this?" he roared, slamming a plate down on the counter. "This is disgusting! Are you trying to poison me?"
Draven calmly turned, locking eyes with the man. "I wash dishes. I don't cook."
The man leaned in closer, shoving a finger into Draven's chest. "I don't care what you do. Fix it. Now."
Draven's vision tunneled. He didn't remember reaching for the knife, but there it was in his hand. His fingers tightened around the handle, his grip steady and sure.
For a long, tense moment, the world narrowed down to just him and the man.
Then, with a visible effort, Draven set the knife down on the counter. He met the man's gaze and smiled—a slow, unsettling smile.
"Let me get that fixed for you," he said, his voice eerily calm.
The man blinked, suddenly uncertain. He stepped back, muttering something under his breath, and hurried out of the kitchen.
---
Later, during his break, Draven leaned against the alley wall, his hands trembling. He stared at them, frowning.
"This life's supposed to be better, right?" he muttered to himself. "No killing, no blood. Just washing dishes and getting yelled at. A paradise for someone like me."
He let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Living the dream."
---
The final hours of his shift were a blur. He clocked out, exhausted, and barely acknowledged the supervisor's parting insult.
As he trudged home through the quiet streets, he replayed the day in his mind. Each insult, each slight, each moment where he'd come this close to snapping.
And yet, he hadn't.
"I'm not that man anymore," he whispered to the empty street. "I'm not."
But his reflection in a passing shop window didn't look so sure.