Chapter 4

• “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, GALA?!”
• Gala didn’t dare lift his head. Every inch of him was trembling, and he could no longer suppress the shivers wracking his body. Never had Mr. Kim yelled like this. Never with such rage.
• He knew what he must look like disheveled, covered in dirt, carrying nothing but an empty bag. And he knew, he knew, that Mrs. Gennie had already called the restaurant. Probably screamed down the line about her ruined lunch scattered across the asphalt.
• She’d hit him. Twice. That damn cane of hers had landed hard on his back, sharp and humiliating. He’d apologized over and over, but it was no use. Her fury couldn’t be reasoned with. And the girl—the one who’d helped him—was gone. Just like that. Disappeared without a word, not even a name. God. He hadn’t even thanked her properly.
• So Gala had pedaled his half-broken bike back to work, dragging his body and his shame with him. What was the point in apologizing to that mad woman? She’d screamed every step of the way, attracting a crowd who stared and whispered, giving Gala a new reason to bow his head in embarrassment—and quiet, boiling anger he didn’t dare express.
• He wasn’t anyone. Just another stray with nowhere to go, kept afloat by leftover meals and whatever scraps of kindness Mr. Kim hadn’t already used up.
• When he slipped through the back entrance, the staff were already waiting. The whole place had the air of a courtroom, and he condemned. Lisa and Daniel weren’t there—probably buried in work, choosing to stay out of the firing squad lining up for him now.
• “I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” Gala said softly, still unable to look up. Call him a coward, a fool, whatever they wanted. But he just couldn’t bring himself to meet that furious gaze.
• Not with Luke sneering like that from the corner of his eye.
• Not with Head Chef Hanry's heavy sigh echoing in his ears.
• “Stupid boy,” Hanry muttered, and turned back to his station. He was angry too, but mostly disappointed. He’d seen this kid work hard—clumsy as hell, but not lazy. Still, this… this was too much. Dropping Mrs. Gennie’s order? Of all people?
• Of course, Mr. Kim was furious. That woman might’ve been a nightmare wrapped in gaudy scarves and harsh perfume, but she’d been the restaurant’s very first customer—and the most loyal. She never missed a week, gave feedback, even stood by Mr. Kim when the place nearly shut down. Hanry had heard it all before during Mr. Kim’s melancholic ramblings. The woman meant something.
• Gala didn’t need to hear it again. Just the mention of Hanry’s voice made him shrink smaller. He could feel sweat soaking his uniform, sticky and heavy beneath the hot afternoon sun. His head throbbed. His stomach clenched—he hadn’t eaten a single bite since morning.
• And still, here he was. Being cursed at. Judged. Humiliated.
• “You!” Mr. Kim’s finger jabbed through the air like a spear. His chest heaved as he spoke, each breath labored under the weight of his rage and body alike. His face was beet-red, puffed with anger, almost comical if it weren’t so terrifying.
• Smoking might as well have been pouring from his ears.
• How could one boy be so reckless? Why did it always have to be Gala?
• And why in the world had Marta sent him?
• “Mr. Kim, I was handling orders! Gala knew the address, and I didn’t. Do you really want me wandering around looking for it?”
• Her excuse had sounded reasonable at the time, and Mr. Kim had begrudgingly agreed. But the moment he’d picked up that call from Mrs. Gennie, he’d felt the first stirring of a volcano inside his chest. Now it was erupting.
• He wanted to crush Gala. To grab him by the collar and shake some sense into that soft, scatterbrained skull of his.
• There were too many mistakes. Too many slip-ups. Too many second chances.
• Was the kid thick? Had he left half his brain back in that rundown flat of his?
• It was always something with Gala. Always some mess. And Mr. Kim? He was tired of cleaning up after him.
• He’s twenty-five, for God’s sake. Twenty-five! And still so utterly, hopelessly careless.
• What was he going to do with him?
• If it weren’t for the promise he’d made all those years ago—fifteen, to be exact—Mr. Kim would’ve thrown him out the moment Gala nearly burned down the kitchen by lighting the gas stove wrong.
• Year three of Gala’s employment. A disaster of a year.
• And yet, here he still was.
• Oh God.
• "I'm sorry..." Gala's voice came out barely above a whisper. He had no strength left—none. All he could do was remain standing, his eyes fixed on the floor, counting the seconds as they passed while the ache in his stomach grew sharper. It was unbearable now. Maybe it was the milk he’d chugged earlier that morning? He didn’t know. Everything was spinning.
• "What am I supposed to do with you?" Mr. Kim groaned, dragging his pudgy hands over his face. His fingers, thick and soft with fat, pressed into his flushed cheeks, like trying to knead out the stress.
• “Just fire him,” Luke said coldly. “Why waste another cent on him? He’s useless. A total waste of payroll.”
• That—that—was what made Gala look up.
• His head snapped up, and his glare locked onto Luke’s with a fire that had been simmering far too long. His face burned, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight that his knuckles turned white and his fingernails dug into his palms. His teeth ground together, a sharp crack of tension filling the air between them.
• "What?" Luke scoffed with a sneer, his voice dripping with mockery. “Loser.”
• Gala had swallowed a lot from Luke over the months. The arrogance, the constant jabs, the way he rallied the other kitchen staff to laugh at Gala like he was some pathetic stray. Never once had Gala fought back—because fighting back meant trouble. And trouble meant losing everything.
• But that didn't mean he didn’t feel it. Every insult. Every look of disgust. Every time Luke acted like Gala didn’t deserve to breathe the same air.
• And today? Today he wasn’t going to let it slide.
• “Back to work. And Gala,” Mr. Kim’s voice boomed suddenly, slicing through the tension like a blade. It hit Gala like a splash of cold water on fire—his rage extinguished in an instant. He turned quickly, spine rigid, head lowered again in submission. But his eyes flicked toward Luke, who smirked and shot him with a middle finger behind Mr. Kim’s back.
• You’ll get yours, Gala thought darkly.
• “One more time,” Mr. Kim growled, voice still heavy with anger. “One more mistake, and you're done. Fired.” He jabbed a finger at Gala like a final blow, his glare still smoldering.
• Then he turned, stomping toward the exit. He had other things to deal with—like replacing the ruined meal and pacifying the irate Mrs. Gennie before she brought the roof down on the whole restaurant.
• “Hanry, make the beef soup. With mashed potatoes. And don’t forget her favorite dessert,” he barked as he reached the door.
• “Yes, Mr. Kim.”
• “Daniel,” he called sharply. “Daniel!”
• And then he was gone—his voice fading with the swing of the door.
• Gala stood there in the echo of his departure, shoulders trembling as he finally let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
• Again. He’d survived—just barely.
• It was as if a heavy weight had finally been lifted from his chest—one that had been choking him all this time. But Gala knew it was only temporary. His relief wouldn’t last. He never knew when his next mistake would come crashing down again. And when it did... that would be the end of his.
• Where would he work? What would become of his life?
• “You idiot!” Marta’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, making him flinch. The pale-skinned girl glared at him; her brows furrowed in disbelief. “How could you be so careless?!”
• Gala didn’t answer. He didn’t have the strength—not for a fight, not even for an apology. He just turned away, grabbed the apron he’d taken off before delivering that cursed order, and went back to scrubbing down his section, which was now piled high with dirty dishes.
• His stomach was twisting in hunger, burning with a hollow ache that grew worse with every passing minute. At the same time, people out in the restaurant were tossing away their meals like they meant nothing. Half-eaten dishes, untouched toast left to grow cold.
• And before any of it could be dumped into the waste bin, Gala—driven purely by instinct—snatched a piece of bread and half a roasted chicken breast from a teetering stack of plates. His hands moved fast. He devoured it faster.
• Then—he choked.
• Hard.
• “Are you insane, Gala?!”
• Hanry turned at the strangled, wheezing sound behind him to see the boy doubled over, coughing and hitting his chest in desperation. In Gala’s hand, the chicken was still halfway to his mouth.
• Hanry rushed to grab a glass of water and shoved it at him, his brows drawn in exasperation. “What the hell are you doing, you idiot?”
• Gala gulped the entire glass in one go, water spilling down his chin as he tried to breathe again. His vision blurred as he fought to steady himself.
• “Nothing,” he muttered weakly.
• “You think I’m blind or something?”
• Gala didn’t respond. He just stared at the roasted chicken like it was a lifeline. He hadn’t even cared what it tasted like—he just needed something in his stomach to keep going.
• “Your meal’s in the drawer. Eat it. Now. Then get back to work,” Hanry grumbled. He glanced between Gala and the dirty plate the boy had nearly scavenged from. Who knew what it had touched, how many people had breathed over it. Lunch had been chaos—no one had time to think, let alone clean.
• “Move it, Gala!”
• Gala blinked hard, then quickly tossed the chicken into the bin and rushed to wash his hands.
• “Thank you, Hanry,” he murmured, voice hoarse but full of genuine gratitude.