I woke up starving.
That was my first thought. The second was, crap—I forgot to buy groceries yesterday. Of course I did. I had just enough mental bandwidth to crawl into bed last night, let alone remember to stock my disaster of a fridge. I opened it anyway, like some masochistic ritual. Surprise: one bottle of mustard, two pickles floating in a jar of sadness, and an expired yogurt that had probably gained sentience by now. I considered eating the pickles just to shut my stomach up, but even I had limits.
"Great. Gourmet breakfast," I muttered, slamming the fridge shut like that would fix anything. It didn't.
No time to mope. I had work. Again. Always.
I pulled on the same pair of jeans from yesterday—still safety-pinned from the last time they tore—and layered a hoodie over my thin shirt. My clothes smelled vaguely of espresso and nightclub air, and I didn't have the time or detergent to fix that. One last glance in the mirror showed the same tired, pale face with red hair tied into a messy bun, green eyes half-lidded from poor sleep, and a body that looked more underfed than fashionable.
The train ride to the café was short, but the hunger gnawed at me like guilt. I was too broke to buy anything proper, but I caved and spent 1.50€ on a buttered Brezel from a street stand near the station. It wasn't something I did often—Brezels were a luxury when your food budget was basically imaginary—but it was warm, tasty, and just for a moment, it felt like comfort. It was warm, soft on the inside, crisp on the outside. Actual heaven in dough form. Almost enough to distract me from the fact that I was broke again, and that tomorrow would start the same way.
I reached the back entrance of the café just in time, coat pulled tight against the morning chill. At least I wasn't late. Small miracles.
"Morning," I said, sliding in and tossing my bag into my locker.
Lena looked at me over the top of her tablet like I'd asked her to donate a kidney. "We need to talk."
Fantastic. Always a good start to the day.
"I need Thursday off," I said quickly, before she could go full dragon mode. "There's a university lecture—big CPU thing, world premiere kind of deal. Really important."
She blinked. "And you're asking for time off? Again?"
"I covered shifts last week. I've been on time every day. I just need that morning."
Lena clicked her tongue, eyes narrowed. "Fine. You can have Thursday. But I'm putting you on Saturday night."
My stomach dropped. "Lena, I study weekends. I have finals coming—"
"Then study Sunday. Or not. Doesn't matter. You work Saturday. Non-negotiable."
I bit the inside of my cheek. The job market wasn't exactly overflowing with barista positions. And I couldn't afford another strike on my record.
"Okay," I said, the word tasting like ash.
She smirked. I hated that smirk. It was the smirk of someone who knew exactly how far they could push you before you broke, and took joy in getting right up to the edge.
I changed into the café uniform, pulled my hair back tighter, and stepped behind the counter like a good little worker bee. The coffee machine hissed. The customers droned. And I survived another shift on caffeine fumes and autopilot.
After the shift, I changed back into my hoodie, wiped espresso splatter off my jeans, and headed toward the train station. I felt like a ghost passing through bodies. Head pounding. Stomach hollow. The Brezel had long since stopped pretending to be a meal.
The sidewalk was crowded. Frankfurt always felt too full—like the city was trying to swallow itself. I weaved through the masses, brain half on standby, when it happened.
A hand.
Right on my ass.
I whipped around, stomach flipping. The guy was tall, muscular, in a cheap black tracksuit. His grin was the kind that made you feel dirty just by existing near it.
"What? Problem, sweetheart?" he said, voice oily.
"Don't touch me," I snapped, backing away. He laughed like I'd told a joke. I ducked into a group of passing students and power-walked to the tram without looking back.
My heart was racing. My skin itched where his hand had been. I wanted to punch something. But what would it change? I wasn't some fearless vigilante. I was just Max. And Max had rent to pay.
At university, I tried to lose myself in lectures, but everything blurred together. My notes were a mess. My handwriting slanted sideways like my brain couldn't keep up. I kept thinking about Lena. And Tracksuit Guy. And how unfair everything felt.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I studied.
Because I didn't have the luxury of breaking down.
By 17:00 I was back in my apartment. I changed into my work blouse and pulled on those same tight jeans—still the ones Claudia had called an investment. She wasn't wrong about the tips, but I was starting to hate the way people looked at me when I wore them. Like they were buying pieces of me with every drink.
A little makeup to fake energy. Deodorant to fake freshness. Confidence I didn't have.
Then I was out the door.
The club was already beating like a heart with bad rhythm. Claudia waved at me from the bar, a tired smile on her face. We exchanged nods like soldiers passing on the front lines.
The first couple of hours went fine. Noise, lights, drinks. Same as always. I carried trays, dodged drunks, flashed polite smiles.
And then it happened.
I was passing a table full of finance bros when one reached out and grabbed a handful of my ass like he was claiming territory.
There was a rip. Loud. Sharp.
My jeans split along the outer thigh.
"Seriously?" I said, spinning around.
He looked at me with a stupid, drunken grin. "Relax. It's just a joke."
I stared at him. At the smug way he leaned back in his chair like he owned the world. Tracksuit Guy with a trust fund.
I stormed to the back, fury simmering in my chest. My leg burned where the denim had torn, but it was nothing compared to the sting in my pride.
Marco, the club manager, was in his office pretending to do paperwork. He smelled like aftershave and ego.
"One of your customers assaulted me," I said, slamming the door behind me. "He grabbed me. Ripped my jeans."
Marco looked up slowly, like I'd interrupted a religious experience. "Which one?"
I described him. Marco sighed.
"He's a regular."
"So? That gives him a pass?"
"He says it was an accident. He's willing to give you 40€ for the jeans."
I stared. "You're joking."
"Max, don't make this a big deal. You've worked here long enough. You know how things are."
The guy walked in right on cue, tossing two twenties on the desk with a smirk that made me want to shove them down his throat.
"No hard feelings, sweetheart," he said.
I said nothing. Couldn't. Because if I opened my mouth, I'd scream. And if I screamed, I'd lose the job.
Marco handed me the cash like it was a peace offering. "Go clean up. Get back out there."
So I did.
I safety-pinned the tear. Stuffed the money into my pocket. Poured drinks with a fake smile so tight it hurt my jaw.
My feet ached. My pride was gone. My stomach was empty again.
At 23:00, I clocked out. Same routine. Bought a sandwich at the kiosk. Ate it slowly on the bench, under flickering streetlights. The bread was dry, but at least it was food.
When I got home, I stripped silently, threw my clothes in a corner, and collapsed into bed.
I stared at the ceiling, eyes burning.
This city didn't care. Not about me. Not about anyone without power, without money, without a voice.
But I wasn't going to stay small forever.
I didn't know how yet. But one day, this city would learn my name.
Tomorrow, I'd smile again.
Because I had to.