Chapter 5

• Later, Gala stood in the back, staring down at the mangled remains of his bicycle—the one friend who never left him. The damage was bad. Really bad. He could still remember the moment it had all gone wrong, the flash of movement, the panic, the screech of tires—
• And Luke.
• Right. That so-called coworker who had never treated him as anything close to an equal. Gala didn’t understand it. He had nothing. Nothing to offer. So why did Luke hate him so much?
• The urge to punch him—just once, just once—burned hot in Gala’s gut.
• But he never did it. He always hesitated. Always thought twice. And then again.
• Maybe he should’ve fought back earlier. Maybe if he’d just thrown the first punch, people would stop calling him weak. Stop looking at him like a stray dog barely worth feeding.
• That’s how it should’ve gone, right?
• But then—Mr. Kim’s round, red face flashed through his mind.
• If Gala had lashed out back there during the humiliation, if he’d dared to raise his voice or his fists, Mr. Kim would’ve kicked him out without a second thought. The man’s patience was paper-thin—and his charity had already worn through long ago.
• And Gala knew better.
• He had to know better.
• The thought echoed in his head like a broken record. The intention to confront Luke Dimitri had completely dissolved by the time Gala left work. Instead, he chose to go home—pushing his wrecked bicycle slowly down the side of the street, mind stuck on how and where he might get it repaired. The damage looked serious.
• And without the bike, he'd be late.
• Finishing work at the restaurant wasn’t the end of Gala’s Day. He still had another job waiting—cleaning houses, scrubbing away grime and dealing with moldy corners. It was dirty, damp, and exhausting, but it paid. Barely.
• His beat-up phone, held together by strips of tape, started ringing sharply, the sound loud enough to make a stray dog flinch near an overflowing trash bin. Gala had taken a shortcut to reach Lot 1, where his next job awaited. It wasn’t a restaurant but a private home. The owner didn’t like to touch dirty dishes or take out her trash—so that became Gala’s responsibility.
• He was lucky, in a way, to even have that extra income, even though the sight and stench of piled-up dishes that had been sitting since morning nearly made him gag.
• He sighed and checked the phone screen.
• Milly Flat.
• Of course.
• “Good evening,” Gala greeted politely, trying to keep his voice steady.
• “Cut the pleasantries, Gala. When are you paying the rest of the rent? You’ve been paid, haven’t you? I heard Marta—your friend—already got hers.”
• Gala closed his eyes briefly. If he had been paid, he wouldn’t be walking home hungry right now, his only comfort being a stale loaf of bread and a nearly expired carton of milk tied to the back of his bike—his breakfast for tomorrow. If nothing else, it would keep him from fainting.
• When he returned to the restaurant earlier, Mr. Kim was already gone. Gala had been the last to leave, finishing the closing duties, locking up. Mr. Kim lived upstairs above the restaurant. Daniel had muttered in passing, “Mr. Kim went out to personally deliver the food you ruined.”
• Gala had wanted to correct him—but what was the point? Let Daniel believe what he wanted. At least his tone wasn’t accusatory like the others’. In fact, his expression hadn’t changed at all. Neutral. As if Gala’s disaster earlier was nothing new, nothing surprising.
• If the delivery had gone smoothly, if the soup hadn't spilled, Gala had planned to finally ask for the rest of his modest paycheck. Just enough to shut Milly up for a week or two. And maybe—just maybe—buy some food for the empty fridge.
• “Yes, ma’am. Maybe tomorrow?”
• “You think I run a charity, Gala? What excuse are you using now, huh? Pay tonight or get out! I’d rather rent the place to a beggar—turns out even they’ve got more money than you!”
• The call ended with a sharp click, the sound biting into Gala’s ear like a slap. His blood boiled. He clenched the phone tightly, the urge to smash it onto the pavement overwhelming.
• But he still had enough sense not to.
• Instead, he kicked a crushed soda can lying nearby. Over and over. He stomped on it, hurled it, retrieved it, and threw it again like it could somehow absorb all the rage suffocating his chest.
• Then he turned on a nearby garbage bag, kicking it like a man possessed.
• And finally, he screamed.
• He let it all out into the empty alley—the anger, desperation, the helplessness.
• “Help.”
• The word halted him mid-breath. Gala froze, body tense, his head tilting slightly.
• “Help me…”
• His eyes darted toward the darkness, narrowing. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice echoing down the alley.
• “Please…”
• He glanced toward his crumpled bicycle a few feet away. It didn’t speak, obviously—but the thought made his heartbeat faster.
• Ridiculous. He was not imagining things. He had to get out of there. No way a woman’s voice could be coming from this alley. It was too late. Too dark. Too empty.
• Creepy.
• “Here. Sir… please.”
• But then curiosity bloomed, rooting him to the spot. The voice was getting clearer. At the same time, a golden-orange glow began to fill the narrow alley, chasing away the shadows.
• It was bright. Blinding, almost. Gala shielded his eyes with the back of his hand.
• “Here, sir,” the voice called again.