First thing in the morning, I roll over on the couch and squint through one half-open eye. The air is still, the sun creeping in through the curtains. But I know it's here. Lurking. Waiting.
My archnemesis.
I spot the glowing rectangle on the bedside table, its screen black, pretending to be harmless.
"It's finally time," I say, my voice raspy. I point a finger at it like I'm challenging a sworn rival to a duel. "Don't ruin it this time."
The phone remains silent. Of course. Coward.
After a grudging truce with my electronic tormentor, I drag myself to the bathroom. Time for the usual morning routine... which goes perfectly fine until the soap betrays me.
"GAHH! MY EYES!" I stumble around like a cursed oracle blinded by divine punishment. "DAMN YOU, SOAP!"
By the time I emerge, I look like I just barely survived a battlefield. But no matter. I reach for the fancy bottle Horace gave me—some deodorant and perfume, apparently essential for 'human hygiene.' After a few sprays, I nod at my reflection in approval. Not bad. Not bad at all.
"Time for battle," I mutter dramatically, slipping on a decent shirt and trousers. The very image of a responsible citizen... minus the fact that I have absolutely no qualifications.
With my resume and ID in hand, I march towards Fried Chicken Heaven. The smartphone remains in my pocket, undoubtedly scheming. But I'm ready. Ready to face my fate!
Standing before the restaurant, I squint at the overly cheerful sign. The smell of fried goodness wafts through the air, beckoning all mortals inside. I take a deep breath. Victory shall be mine!
But just as I prepare to enter, I glare at my phone one last time.
"This is your final warning, you rectangular menace. No sabotage. No misguiding. If I fail today, I'm feeding you to the dog."
The screen remains black.
Tch. Suspicious.
The manager is already there, sipping from a gigantic cup of soda his weird mustache still intact. From now on, I'll call him Mr. Mustache. His eyes land on me, and for a second, I swear I see a flicker of recognition. Probably from yesterday. The whole 'standing like an idiot' thing wasn't my best moment.
"You again," he says, deadpan.
"Yes! And this time, I come prepared!" I dramatically hold up my precious, newly-forged resume and ID.
The manager, Mr. Mustache squints at the papers. "Shiwei... Park?"
"That's right!" I nod enthusiastically. "100% human. Very employable. Totally ordinary."
He doesn't look convinced. "Alright. Interview time. Let's get this over with."
We sit down, and he starts with the usual boring questions. Easy stuff.
"Why do you want to work at Fried Chicken Heaven?"
"Because I require money to obtain delicious human pastries." Nailed it.
Mr. Mustache blinks. "You mean... cake?"
"Yes. Those magnificent circles of joy, but sometimes its triangle and semi-circle."
He clears his throat. "Okay... How would you handle a difficult customer?"
"Ah, I would offer them a treaty of peace and recommend a generous portion of fried goods to soothe their mortal anguish."
"So... upselling?"
"Indeed."
He sighs.
"Describe your strengths."
"Time manipulation, cosmic awareness, and the ability to foresee the downfall of empires, and that includes a flower pot towards an idiot's head."
"..."
I add quickly, "And I can carry heavy trays..."
"Right..." Mr. Mustache pinches the bridge of his nose. "And your weaknesses?"
"Dogs."
Mr. Mustache raises an eyebrow.
"They chase me... Relentlessly.... Like I owe them money."
"Oh, and this one as well," I gesture dramatically to the smartphone. "A device of unparalleled evil."
He coughs to cover his laughter, then moves on. "Describe a time you worked as part of a team."
"Ah, yes! My days as a Time Warden."
"A... what?"
"We manipulated the flow of time, maintained cosmic order, and occasionally prevented existential calamities." I flash a proud smile. "Oh, and I once watered Mrs. Henderson's garden and delivered newspaper around the neighborhood."
The manager is visibly confused, flipping through my resume as if some logical answer will manifest. "Uh... hobbies?"
"Judging the life choices of the bubbly girl from the restaurant that serves the Majestic Gyudon across the street."
"...What?"
"Nothing! I enjoy observing human behavior. It's fascinating." I nod sagely. "Like that time a flower pot nearly took out an idiot girl. Only my heroic intervention saved her."
"Are you— Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
He shakes his head, probably questioning all his life choices. "Fine. Last question. Where do you see yourself in five years?"
"Not being chased by dogs..."
***
Despite my impeccable responses, the manager looks like he's one bad answer away from throwing himself into the fryer. But just as I brace for rejection, something unexpected happens.
A group of customers, mostly teenagers, giggle and point towards me from the counter. I hear the faint whispers.
"Is he a model?"
"Look at his hair! It's like some K-drama prince."
The manager's eyes narrow, calculating. Suddenly, his weary expression shifts into opportunistic glee.
"Alright," he says, slapping the table. "You're hired."
I blink. "What?"
"Welcome aboard. You're now part of Fried Chicken Heaven. But uh, mostly for... aesthetic purposes."
"Aesthetic... purposes?"
"Yeah. You'll serve food, but you're also kind of our... display piece. A walking advertisement."
So I got the job... not for my knowledge, nor my charisma, but because I'm apparently pretty?
"Huh," I mumble. "Take that, smartphone! My face has defeated your schemes!"
This victory tastes suspiciously like chicken grease, but I'll take it. The battle of employment has been won! Shiwei, 2. Smartphone, 0.
***
The next morning, I wake up with pride swelling in my chest. Employed. Gainfully employed. A working man of society.
After a quick shower, where I accidentally manage to get soap in my eyes again and spend ten agonizing minutes questioning if this is karma, I'm finally ready.
I stand in front of the mirror, my reflection staring back in the sleek Fried Chicken Heaven uniform. The crisp white shirt and black apron practically scream responsibility. I grin smugly.
"In your face, smartphone!" I declare, pointing at the phone on my bedside table. "Look who's contributing to society now!"
The phone remains silent. Coward.
I slap on a bit of that human invention called deodorant, followed by a whiff of Horace's gifted cologne. Honestly, I smell like I belong in one of those dramatic commercials where a man confidently strolls through a storm of flying doves. Except instead of doves, it's probably just greasy fried chicken crumbs.
With a final once-over in the mirror, I march out. The world shall now witness the glory of Shiwei, the employed man!
But then, as I walk down the street, fate cruelly reminds me that even the mighty must face their enemies. There it is. The dog. Leashed on his tiny home.
We lock eyes.
"Heh," I smirk, flipping the dog an exaggerated, smug wave. "Look who's got on a leash now, huh? Can't chase me now, can you?"
The dog tilts its head. I swear it's plotting something.
"Yeah, thought so." I nod triumphantly and continue my victorious stride.
Arriving at Fried Chicken Heaven, I'm practically glowing. The manager, Mr. Mustache- real name Martin Chen- a stern man with a face that looks like it's permanently stuck in a squint and a weird mustache, hands me over to my trainer for the day. She's a young woman named Liza with a 'z' according to him, probably no older than Yue and Horace, but with an expression that oozes fake friendliness. She bats her eyelashes a little too much, which immediately triggers my suspicion.
"So," Liza smiles, stepping a little too close. "First day, huh? I'll be taking real good care of you."
Weird.
"Uh, sure," I reply. "I'm Shiwei. I like the Gyudon from across the street and... not dying."
She giggles. Why? That wasn't even funny.
"Adorable," she coos. "Let's get you started."
My training begins. Apparently, there's more to this job than just handing people fried chicken. Liza keeps touching my arm unnecessarily, and I'm starting to think she might have poor balance. That, or she's trying to steal my energy through physical contact. Probably the latter.
But as I diligently pretend to listen, I catch sight of her.
The bubbly girl.
There she is, just outside the window, skipping across the sidewalk like a character straight out of some overly colorful cartoon. But then I spot the glaring issue.
"No. No, no, no. You idiot!" I mutter, my eyes widening.
She's approaching the crosswalk, oblivious to the glaring green light. Cars are lined up, ready to zoom past. The impending disaster is practically screaming at me.
"Why are you like this?!"
In a flash, I discreetly wave my fingers under the counter, channeling my power. Time around the traffic light speeds up, and in a blink, it switches to red. The cars halt, and the bubbly girl skips across the street unharmed, completely unaware of the catastrophe she just narrowly avoided.
"Congratulations, Shiwei," I grumble under my breath. "You've just been promoted to unpaid guardian angel level 2."
And it doesn't stop there. Throughout the day, it's one disaster after another.
She almost leans on a wobbly signboard. Time accelerated. Disaster avoided.
Trips over her own feet, sending her tray of drinks airborne. Time delayed. No spills.
Tries to reach for something on a high shelf. I slow time just enough to prevent a head-on collision with a rogue can of soup.
Liza, meanwhile, thinks I'm just really good at customer service.
"Wow, you're so attentive!" she gushes. "It's like you know when something's about to happen."
"Yeah," I mutter, deadpan. "A real sixth sense."
By the end of the day, my body aches, my brain is fried pun intended, and I've gained the prestigious title of both server and reluctant savior of an idiotic girl. The manager pats me on the back, grinning with the enthusiasm of a man who just secured free model labor disguised as employment.
"Congratulations! You're officially part of the team!"
"Yay," I deadpan.
As I trudge home, my reflection in a nearby window catches my eye. I glance at myself, still in uniform, with a trace of chicken grease on my sleeve. Pride and exhaustion wage war within me.
"Well," I sigh. "At least the dog didn't chase me today."
Small victories.