Chapter 2

• “You idiot! Late again?”
• Gala froze just as he was trying on his apron. “Not even five minutes, Mr. Kim,” he muttered defensively.
• “That’s it! Wash every single pot and pan in the kitchen. Not one speck of grease left behind—got it? If I so much as see one oily spot, you’re fired, Gala.”
• He nodded wordlessly, stealing a glance at the heavyset man whose body barely fit between the prep tables and the cooking stations. Watching Mr. Kim waddle across the kitchen always looked like a physical struggle. His face was redder than usual too, flushed with either anger or heat—or both.
• “Let’s go, Gala,” he whispered under his breath, forcing his steps toward the sink.
• The dish station was worse than expected. Pots and pans were piled high—even under the basin—and he couldn't stop the frustrated sigh that slipped out. What the hell happened here?
• He cleaned this area just last night. Yet somehow, it looked twice as bad today.
• “Gala!” Luke’s sharp voice rang out from the kitchen entrance. “Stop dragging your feet! The whole place reeks—we can’t cook in this stench.”
• If only...
• If only I didn’t need this job to survive.
• Finding work in South Metro was already close to impossible for someone like him. No higher education, no connections, no safety net. His mother had abandoned him before he could even consider high school. Since then, he’d taken every bottom-of-the-barrel job imaginable—except dealing drugs. That was a line he refused to cross. He didn’t want to end up on the radar of the South Metro security force.
• Still, if he hadn’t been so dependent on this place—on Mr. Kim’s stingy paychecks and leftover meals—he would’ve walked away ages ago.
• Every morning, the first thing he did was check the waste disposal inside the restaurant. Hygiene had to be a top priority—South Metro’s regulations were strict when it came to restaurant cleanliness. Stricter than anywhere else in the city, really.
• He lived in a nation divided into four main sectors. South Metro, where he was born, was the most developed. Well-lit streets, stable infrastructure, and a higher standard of living—though only for those lucky enough to benefit from it. To the north lay North Metro, and to the west, the vast mountains and lush valleys of West Metro.
• He’d never seen North Metro with his own eyes. Honestly, he barely knew what it looked like. Traveling between regions wasn’t easy. Every person had to show a registered identity—what they called a Code Person. Once scanned, the system displayed everything about you: name, birth record, criminal history… even your medical conditions.
• Everywhere across the four Metros, that rule was ironclad.
• Getting a Code Person was expensive—unreasonably so, at least for someone like Gala. He was technically registered as a South Metro citizen, but completing the required credentials for full access to Code Person status? That was a luxury he simply couldn’t afford.
• Or maybe… he just didn’t know how the process worked. Either way, it felt out of reach.
• Luke had one, though. Smug bastard.
• Gala still remembered three months ago when Luke, with all the arrogance in the world, flaunted his Code Person profile—every detail about him displayed like some prized trophy. Gala had tried to ignore him, tried not to react, but deep down, it bothered him.
• He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to get drawn into Luke’s obnoxious boasting.
• But damn it… he did want to know. He wanted to understand. He just didn’t want to ask and risk the one thing Luke would definitely offer in return—mockery.
• If he dared to challenge Luke, it would only land him in more trouble. No, no. Gala already had enough bad luck—he didn’t need to add to the growing list of disasters that seemed to follow him everywhere. Living like this… it wasn’t ideal, but it was manageable. Maybe—just maybe—someday a miracle would come his way, even if that felt utterly impossible.
• Still, he really wanted to slap Luke. Just once. Right across that smug face everyone insisted was handsome. In Gala’s eyes, Luke and Mr. Kim were cut from the same cloth—equally annoying.
• He chuckled at the thought, and somehow, that helped him work faster. He just needed to take out the last batch of trash, then sweep and mop the kitchen area to finish his shift.
• After that, it was back to the endless tower of dishes. Dirty plates, bowls, and cutlery kept piling up without end—Mr. Kim’s restaurant was known for being busy. People always raved about the food—how flavorful it was, how rich and satisfying. But Gala had never tasted any of it. Mr. Kim made it strictly clear that only the cooks were allowed to sample the menu.
• “If you want a plate of food like the customers get, you pay for it,” Mr. Kim would say, again and again. Honestly, he probably recited that line more religiously than the health code. Lunch break, dinner hour, even when Gala was on his way out the door—always the same warning.
• Gala was always the last one to leave. He had to handle the trash and make sure everything was spotless before the night closed. That morning, though, something was off. There were more dirty kitchen tools than usual, but he didn’t bother asking. He knew better than poking the bear.
• “Gala. Take this to Lot 5. Lady Gennie’s residence.”
• He looked up, pausing his task of scrubbing old, sticky sauces off the inside of the walk-in fridge. Marta was holding up a paper bag, and he instantly knew it was a delivery order.
• “Alright,” he replied. Of course he wouldn’t say no. He never said no.
• He had been planning to gather the leftover bread scraps after the fridge was cleaned—just enough to quiet his stomach for a few hours. But the restaurant was busy today, unusually so. Only now did he realize there must’ve been a private dinner event the night before. That explained the mess this morning—the mountain of used pots and pans.
• “Hurry,” Marta added, walking closer. Her eyes swept over his pale face. “And Gala—be careful. This tomato soup is Lady Gennie’s favorite. If she throws a tantrum because it spills on the way there, it’s Mr. Kim who’ll deal with her wrath.”
• Gala swallowed hard. “Got it,” he replied, voice low.
• Marta made a face and placed the bag on the counter—Gala was still rinsing his hands. She rushed back toward her station, where a long queue of orders was probably waiting to swallow her whole.
• As always.
• The swinging door connecting the kitchen to the restaurant floor flapped open and shut in a blur, letting Gala catch a brief glimpse of the chaos beyond. The dining area was packed, the noise of murmuring laughter, conversation, and clattering utensils.
• Every night when Gala left, he took the long route past the front of the restaurant—Go Stea Express. But by then, the metal shutters were already down, and the dining area cleared. He’d stop for a moment to stare at the glowing sign above the storefront: a cartoon cow’s head smiling awkwardly from the center of the logo. The bright, colorful letters still lit up the sidewalk, trying to lure in customers.
• Today, he glanced at that same logo printed on the paper bag.
• A soft sigh escaped his lips.
• Something about the goofy-looking cow always made him feel like it was mocking him.
• Get a grip, Gala.