David's eyes cracked open to the sterile fluorescent lights above. His neck ached from the awkward angle he'd slept in, slumped over the laboratory table. For several disoriented moments, he couldn't remember where he was or why his body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.
Then it came back to him—the locked lecture hall, the mysterious girl, the empty lab.
The girl.
His hand moved instinctively to his pocket. Empty. He frowned and checked the other pocket. Nothing. Then his jacket pockets. Still nothing.
A cold sensation crept up his spine.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The table surface was bare except for the psychology textbook he'd been reading. No phone. He dropped to his knees and scanned the floor beneath the table, then expanded his search to the surrounding area. Nothing.
His bag. He grabbed it with trembling hands, unzipping it with more force than necessary. Books tumbled out—the psychology text, some lecture notes, his clearance documents. But no phone.
"No, no, no," he muttered, emptying the bag completely and shaking it as if the device might materialize from thin air.
He looked around the lab. The girl was gone. Of course she was gone—how long had he been asleep? They had been the only two people in this forgotten room, and now she had vanished, along with his phone.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. She'd stolen it. She had to have.
David shoved everything back into his bag, his movements frantic now. He had to find her. That phone wasn't just a device—it was his lifeline. Every contact, every work schedule, every communication channel he had access to was on that phone.
He burst out of the lab and into the hallway, squinting against the harsh afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. How long had he been out?
"Excuse me," he grabbed a passing student by the arm. "Have you seen a girl—chestnut hair, huge glasses, black cap that says 'Bad Girl'?"
The student gave him a strange look and shook his head. "No, man. Sorry."
David released him and moved on to the next person, then the next. The same description, repeated over and over. The same blank stares and shaking heads in response. It was as if she'd never existed at all.
His chest tightened as panic began to settle in properly. He checked his wrist—no watch. He'd pawned it two months ago. He stopped another student, this time forcing his voice to stay calm.
"Hey, what time is it?"
"Uh... 2:23."
The words knocked the air from David's lungs. Two twenty-three in the afternoon. He was supposed to be at work at two. He was already late—very late—for his shift at Glorious Taste.
He didn't have time to search anymore. His legs were already moving, carrying him toward the exit in a desperate sprint. Students called out as he shouldered past them, but he didn't stop to apologize. Every second counted now.
The cab ride to Rothwell Street felt like an eternity, even though it couldn't have been more than thirty minutes. David watched the meter climb with each passing block, mentally calculating whether he had enough cash to cover it. When the driver finally pulled up to the restaurant, the dashboard clock read 3:00 PM.
One hour late.
David paid the fare and stepped out onto the sidewalk, staring up at the pristine glass facade of Glorious Taste. Even from outside, the place screamed wealth—the kind of establishment where a single appetizer cost more than David made in a day. Five crystal chandeliers were visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, each one a masterpiece of cylindrical glass surrounded by hanging panels that caught and refracted the light into golden rays. Inside, elegantly dressed patrons sat at tables crafted from tempered glass, lounging in plush red velvet chairs with gilded frames.
David had never eaten there. None of the workers had. They couldn't afford it.
He slipped around to the back entrance, hoping to avoid attention. The kitchen was chaos—servers rushing past with loaded trays, the head chef barking orders, the clatter of dishes and sizzle of pans creating a symphony of controlled pandemonium. Clearly, today was busier than usual.
Maybe he could slip in unnoticed. Maybe in all this confusion, no one would realize he was late.
He made it to the break room and grabbed his apron from the hook. His fingers had just closed around the white fabric, emblazoned with the restaurant's name in golden script, when the door swung open behind him.
"Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up."
David didn't need to turn around to recognize that voice. Javier.
He turned anyway, meeting the blonde-haired server's smug grin. Beside him stood Norman, dressed in the same server's uniform, his expression equally gleeful.
"The manager himself," Javier continued, his tone dripping with mock reverence. "We were starting to think you weren't coming. What's the excuse today, David? Let me guess—you were abducted by aliens? Your apartment building caught fire? A wild dog ate your alarm clock?"
Norman snickered. "Seriously, how do you even come up with this stuff?"
David ignored them both and moved toward the door, but Javier's hand shot out, gripping his shoulder firmly.
"What do you want?" David said, his voice flat as he met Javier's eyes.
Javier released him, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Nothing at all, my friend. Just thought you'd want to know—the boss is looking for you. Wants to have a little chat."
David's stomach dropped. He studied both men's faces, saw the barely concealed satisfaction there. They'd told the boss. Of course they had. The moment they realized he wasn't here, they'd gone straight to management.
Javier and Norman had hated him from day one. David had never figured out why—he'd never done anything to either of them. But some people didn't need a reason. Some people just needed a target, and David, with his secondhand clothes and quiet demeanor, made an easy one.
He'd learned early on to keep his distance, to avoid giving them ammunition. But today, his luck had finally run out.
"You'll regret this," David said quietly, dropping the apron onto the counter.
Norman laughed. "That's what Martinez said last month, right before he got fired. How'd that work out for him?"
Their laughter followed David as he left the break room, walking down the narrow corridor that led to the administrative offices. Workers rushed past him in both directions, too busy to notice his presence. The lunch rush was in full swing.
He climbed the back stairs to the second floor, where the manager's office sat removed from the chaos below. His hand hesitated for just a moment before he knocked on the door.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder this time.
"Come in."
David's hand closed around the doorknob. Whatever happened next would determine whether he still had a job at the end of this conversation—and whether he'd be able to make rent this month.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.