At the exact same moment, miles away from the rigid corridors of the mansion, in a desolate university district, a modest café still kept its lights burning.
The warm glow from within reflected softly on the puddles blanketing the sidewalk, creating the illusion that the café was the sole beacon of life in the wet, gloomy night. The place was nearly empty.
It exhaled the scent of slightly burnt coffee mixed with the sharp tang of ozone from the rain outside. Only a young barista remained, half-asleep behind the espresso machine.
Heavy rain lashed against the glass windows, creating a curtain of water that blurred the dark street view outside. Inside, the storm was nothing more than a faint hiss, drowned out by the soft, melancholic hum of lo-fi music.
Dim yellow lights turned the steam rising from empty cups into wisps of ghost-like fog, adding to the fragile tranquility of the room. In the corner, a flat-screen television was mounted on the wall, its volume turned low.
A meteorologist with a worried expression stood before a digital map cluttered with storm symbols. The ticker at the bottom of the screen scrolled the same message repeatedly:
...UNPRECEDENTED WEATHER ANOMALY... GOVERNMENT ADVISES CITIZENS TO REMAIN VIGILANT... SEVERE WEATHER EXPECTED TO PERSIST FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE...
The blue light from the screen flickered softly, casting faint silhouettes across the empty tables. Beneath the television, in the furthest booth, isolated from the rest of the vacant room, a handsome young man let out a long, weary sigh.
His skin was pale with exhaustion, and the dark circles under his eyes confirmed this wasn't his first night battling deadlines. He stretched violently, extending both arms high above his head until his joints let out a quiet crack.
He had been sitting there for God knows how long.
The table before him was a disaster zone. Thick textbooks on architectural history and building physics lay open, overlapping one another. Notes filled with sketches and calculations were scattered all around.
The table looked like the ruins of a small academic skirmish. His drowsy eyes fixed on the cup beside his laptop. His hand reached out with a slow, heavy movement, grasping the white porcelain mug. The coffee inside was down to the last third, and likely as cold as the rain outside.
A faint, bitter aroma drifted from the rim, a sign that the caffeine had given up the ghost long ago. As he pulled the cup closer, his elbow accidentally nudged a spiral-bound notebook. It shifted slightly atop a stack of papers, revealing the top right corner of a calculus assignment beneath. There, written in neat but firm handwriting:
Name: Arka...
His last name, whatever it was, remained buried beneath a thick history textbook.
Arka yawned again, rubbing his face with both hands. He was completely oblivious to the news on the television, let alone the true darkness being discussed in a mansion on the other side of the city. The only thing he cared about was the assignment that had to be finished before sunrise.
His eyelids fluttered every time he forced himself to focus, as if his own brain were protesting. Arka let out a long breath, staring at the seemingly endless pile of papers before him. Drowsiness felt like a thick fog trying to drag his eyelids shut.
"Come on, Arka," he muttered softly to himself, his voice barely audible over the hiss of rain and the music.
"Just a little more. One more sub-chapter, and it's done." He straightened his stiff back, rolling his neck until it popped softly.
With a slight grimace, he grabbed the cup and downed the remaining cold coffee. The bitter, vinegar-like acidity was at least enough to make him jolt slightly and wince involuntarily.
His tongue protested, but his consciousness climbed back up by two percent. His hand reached for his pen again.
"Okay, focus," he whispered, firmer this time.
"One more hour. You can do this."
He bent his head again, forcing his eyes to lock onto the rows of numbers and formulas on his assignment sheet. Just as Arka lowered his gaze, forcing his brain to process an integral formula, a short vibration buzzed on the table. His phone lit up.
The white light pierced Arka's eyes, which were fighting a losing battle against sleep. He glanced at it lazily, assuming it was just a social media notification. But the name on the screen made him drop his pen instantly. His breath hitched.
-MOM-
He opened the text message.
Mom:
Happy 19th birthday, darling! Remember to take care of your health, study properly, stop chasing girls all the time, hehehe... focus on your studies. I sent you 3x your monthly allowance as a gift, have fun. Remember, no chasing girls. 😠
Arka's sleepy eyes widened instantly. The fatigue and drowsiness evaporated in a split second, replaced by pure euphoria. Birthday! He had completely forgotten it was past midnight.
And three times his monthly allowance. A wide grin broke across his face. He threw both hands in the air.
"YESSSS!" His loud, triumphant shout shattered the silence of the café, echoing off the empty walls.
Behind the counter, the barista, who had been dozing off with chin in hand, jolted awake. He leaped from his chair, eyes blinking wildly, trying to locate the source of the commotion in the quiet café.
His hand reflexively grabbed a rag, as if that would help him face whatever had just happened. The barista rubbed his shocked eyes, staring at Arka with a bewildered look that said, "What-the-hell-just-happened?"
Arka himself was still grinning widely, the adrenaline from his mother's gift pumping in his chest. He was just about to type a reply, "Thanks Mom!", when his phone buzzed again.
A second notification. This time from the contact 'Dad'. Still riding the remnants of euphoria, Arka opened it. His smile faded slightly as he read the first line.
"Happy birthday bro, don't be a weak man. Don't be a crybaby..."
"Okay... okay, standard lecture," he muttered quietly. He continued reading. His eyes widened as he reached the next part.
"Find lots of girls..."
"Huh?" Then he read the next sentence.
"...If your mother wasn't so possessive, nagging, and crazy, your father might have 9 wives right now."
Arka choked on his own spit. He coughed softly, trying to suppress the absurd laughter exploding in his chest. He hurriedly lowered his head, shoulders shaking. He could feel the barista's suspicious gaze from across the room. Dad is crazy, he thought.
His cheeks flushed red, holding back inappropriate laughter in the middle of the night. Then, his eyes caught the crucial sentence.
"...Dad sent you pocket money, 3x your monthly allowance."
The shaking in his shoulders stopped dead. His heart felt like it skipped a beat for a second. Wait. What. He reread the sentence. Then he reread his mother's message.
Mom: 3x. Dad: 3x.
He now... had... six times his monthly allowance. This time Arka didn't scream.
His reaction was far quieter yet more dramatic. His eyes widened as large as saucers, his mouth opened soundlessly. All the blood seemed to drain from his face, then rushed back just as quickly. He felt dizzy. His hands gripped the edge of the wooden table, as if the room were physically spinning.
His lips trembled, trying to express something between shock and joy, but failed miserably. The textbooks, architectural history, the storm outside—everything vanished. All that existed in his brain were rows of zeros. The pure euphoria lasted for three seconds, before he read the final sentence of his father's message:
"...Don't tell mom or it will be a disaster. WATCH OUT!!!"
Instantly, the dizziness of joy turned into the dizziness of stress. He dropped his head onto the table, banging his forehead softly against the cold wooden surface.
THUD.
"Crazy..." he hissed, his voice muffled by the table.
"This is an absolute disaster."
On the television screen above him, the meteorologist pointed to a swirling red map, using the exact same word to describe the storm outside. It was as if the world was laughing at his little tragedy. Arka was rich.
And he was just caught in the middle of his parents' cold war with ammunition worth six times his monthly allowance. He lifted his head again, staring at the barista who now looked thoroughly convinced that his only customer had lost his mind.
Arka could only raise a hand and offer the most awkward, grimacing smile, before looking back down at his phone screen with an indescribable mix of horror and happiness.
The barista slowly took half a step back, as if assessing whether to hit the emergency alarm. Arka buried his face in his palms, trying to process the two contradictory yet equally profitable text messages.
"Mom is a diplomat, rarely comes home..."
"Dad is a soldier," he thought, still looking down. He tried to picture his father's stern, disciplined face, the man who always called him "bro".
"He said he's a peacekeeper... who knows in which country or kingdom he is right now, whatever." The thought paused for a moment.
Arka's sleep-deprived imagination suddenly jumped to an absurd scenario, triggered by his father's message.
"...Dad might have 9 wives right now."
"Uhm," Arka mumbled softly into his palms.
"Is it possible... over there... Dad is actually looking for other women? Secret wives?"
A ridiculous image flashed through his mind: his father in military uniform, surrounded by nine women in some godforsaken country.
The image was so absurd his body shuddered on its own. He immediately lifted his head, eyes wide with horror at his own thoughts. An awkward chill ran down the back of his neck.
"Ah, stupid, stupid, stupid!" he sighed softly. He tapped his own temples lightly with his knuckles.
"My imagination is too wild. Mom is crazy, but Dad is just as nuts."
He shook his head rapidly, banishing the absurd image.
"Focus!" he hissed, massaging his temples which were starting to throb. The more pressing issue now was this double transfer drama and how to hide it from Mom, when—
Ding!
"Oh god, who is it now?" he muttered wearily.
He stared at the screen.
GRANDPA.
With a slight apprehension of whether Grandpa would also send money and a lecture, he opened the message. His eyes were immediately assaulted by a familiar string of capital letters.
GRANDPA:
YOU BIRTHDAY COME HOME QUICK GRANDPA DIDN'T SLEEP MAKING STEAMED CHICKEN COME HOME AND EAT AND YOU DON'T WANT GIFT FROM GRANDPA.
Arka read the message once. Then read it again. Instantly, all the fog of drowsiness, all the complexity about the monthly allowance, all the nauseating calculus formulas—vanished.
Forget the storm. Forget the assignment.
STEAMED CHICKEN.
The words resonated in his brain louder than any thunder. His grandfather hadn't slept to make it. "ON MY WAY, GRAMPS!" Arka shouted unconsciously, this time with pure enthusiasm. The barista jumped in shock for the third time that night. His chair nearly tipped over backward. Arka didn't care anymore. He moved like a man possessed.
CLACK!—
The laptop was slammed shut in the middle of an unfinished formula.
WOOSH! THUD!—
Thick textbooks and notes were scooped up all at once, crumpled or folded be damned, and jammed forcefully into his already overflowing backpack.
Every movement was executed with the frantic efficiency of a college student who just remembered a family commitment. Pen and phone were snatched and shoved into his jacket pocket. In less than twenty seconds, the table that once looked like the site of an academic disaster was clean.
Arka grabbed his bag, shouldering it in one swift motion, and jogged to the counter. He threw several bills onto the table—far more than the price of his coffee.
"Thanks, man! Sorry for the noise! I'm out!"
Without waiting for a reply from the still bewildered barista, Arka pushed open the café door. The cold air and spray of rain hit his face instantly, but he only grinned widely.
The wind carried the scent of wet earth and rain-soaked wood, biting cold but awakening his adrenaline. He popped his jacket collar, lowered his head, and ran into the storm, charging through the night.
Puddles shattered beneath his shoes, reflecting the dim streetlights. To hell with the bad weather forecast on TV. Steamed chicken and Grandpa's gift were waiting for him.
_______ ✧ _______ ☾⚜☽ _______ ✧ _______