Chapter Text
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“I have seen deer split open on the road and thought, that’s exactly what those soft and gentle fuckers deserve.” - Hedgie Choi
It’s glinting, that son of a bitch, right in his eye as he drives down the cracked pavement of this forgotten stretch of America.
The sun’s barely up, but it’s already got this town in a chokehold, drenching everything in a syrupy yellow that sticks to the skin. The shotgun’s in the passenger seat, not in the trunk where it usually sleeps under an old blanket, safe from prying eyes. Today it’s out in the open, like it’s got something to prove. Glistening in the morning light, every inch of that polished metal begging for attention, like the skin of a woman with too much lotion and not enough self-respect. Nigel’s eyes keep sliding back to it.
He squints against the glare, the edges of his vision blurring as his head throbs from last night’s vodka. That headache’s a real bitch, pounding in rhythm with the shitty Robbie Dupree song blaring from the radio.
The road ahead is a straight line, as empty and desolate as the thoughts rattling around in his skull. The trees lining the sides are mostly dead. The occasional rusty mailbox stands sentry, paint peeling off in strips, names faded. The kind of place where dreams go to die, if anyone had the nerve to dream in the first place. Nigel’s foot presses down on the gas, and the old girl sputters in response, engine coughing like an asthmatic. He should’ve taken it in for a tune-up months ago, but the mechanic’s another asshole in this town full of them, and Nigel doesn’t need more reasons to want to blow his brains out.
His skin’s crawling, and it isn’t from the polyester uniform. No, it’s something deeper, something that’s been coiled up inside him for as long as he can remember. Today, it’s closer to the surface, like a splinter working its way out of infected flesh. Today might be the day. The day he might finally give in, might finally do what’s been whispering at him in the dead of night when the silence gets too loud.
The shotgun’s there, whispering, too. Like a pretty lady. The kind of voice that could make a man do something stupid. His fingers itch, twitching on the steering wheel, wanting to reach out, to feel the cold steel under his hands, to heft that weight and press it against his own temple. It’d be so easy. Just one pull of the trigger, one split-second of pressure, and it’d all be over. No more bullshit, no more pain, no more empty, endless days that stretch out in front of him like the goddamn road he’s on now.
He drags on his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs, acrid and bitter. He exhales out the window, watching the gray plume get whipped away by the wind, disappearing into the air like everything else in this fucking town. Disappearing like he wishes he could. A Romanian like him, he’s got no place here, no place in this world, really. He’s out of place, out of time, a relic of a life he can’t even remember clearly anymore. He was supposed to disappear, to get lost in the crowd, but this town, it’s too small for that. Too small to hide in, too small to breathe in. Darko, that bastard, told him to run, told him to get the hell out of Europe and never look back. And Nigel did, because what choice did he have?
No one’s up yet, no one but him, and that’s just how he likes it. No distractions, no one to look at him funny or ask him stupid questions he doesn’t want to answer. He’s always early for work, not because he gives a shit about the job, but because it gives him a moment of peace. A moment where he can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s not a complete and utter failure. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, not that it matters. He’s running on nothing but black coffee and nicotine, his stomach a hollow pit that he’s gotten used to ignoring. It’s funny, really, how the hunger doesn’t even bother him anymore, how it’s become just another part of the background noise in his head, something he can shove aside along with all the other things he doesn’t want to think about.
He pulls into the parking lot of Burgers Burgers Burgers, the neon sign above flickering pathetically in the dawn light. It’s the kind of place that’s stuck in the 70s, with cracked vinyl seats and a jukebox that hasn’t worked in years. The paint on the walls is peeling, exposing layers of garish colors underneath, like the place has tried on a dozen different skins over the years and none of them fit right. The windows are grimy, the glass smeared with fingerprints and grease, and the whole place smells like stale fries and old fryer oil.
Nigel kills the engine, the silence rushing in to fill the void left by the radio. For a moment, he just sits there, his hands gripping the wheel. He stares at the shotgun, at the way it catches the light, the metal gleaming like a predator’s eye. It’s practically vibrating with energy, with the promise of release, and his pulse picks up.
He tosses the cigarette out the window, watching the ember flare bright red before it hits the pavement and fizzles out. He thinks about the scar on his forehead, the one no one around here asks about. It’s ugly, a jagged thing of puckered flesh, the color of old bruises and bad memories. He remembers how he got it, the way the world had exploded around him in a flash of light and peace. Quiet.
He doesn’t have the energy to make up lies, and the truth’s something he’s not willing to share. Not with these people, these goddamn Americans who wouldn’t know a hard life if it kicked them in the teeth. He thinks about that sometimes, about how easy they all have it, with their big houses and bigger cars, their stupid smiles and even stupider dreams. They don’t know what it’s like to live in the dark, to have your whole life ripped away from you and replaced with something you didn’t ask for.
The shotgun’s still glinting at him from the passenger seat, catching the light just right, and he scowls at it, tells it to shut the fuck up, even though he knows it won’t. It never does. He grabs the crumpled hat off the dashboard, shoving it onto his head, the brim low over his eyes, hiding the mess of hair that he hasn’t bothered to cut in months.
He stares at himself in the rearview mirror, at the eyes that stare back at him, dead and flat, like a shark’s. There’s nothing there, nothing behind them, just an empty void where something used to be. Maybe it was hope, maybe it was something else, but whatever it was, it’s gone now, and he’s not sure he even remembers what it felt like. He bares his teeth at his reflection, a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, the nicotine stains darkening his teeth, the canines sharp and pointed, like something feral, something not quite human.
It used to scare people, that smile.
He shoves the door open. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thud, the sound swallowed up by the emptiness around him. There’s no one else here yet, not even the boss, and that’s just how Nigel likes it.
He locks the car, the shotgun still sitting in the passenger seat, taunting him, daring him to take it with him. But he doesn’t. Not yet. There’s no point in bringing it inside when there’s no one there to tempt him. No one to push him over the edge. He walks across the cracked asphalt, his boots scuffing against the ground, past the old gas station pumps that surround the place like relics of a bygone era. They’re rusted and empty, no longer in use, just like everything else in this town.
The glass doors of the diner are smeared with grease, the handle sticky under his palm as he unlocks them and steps inside. The place is dark, the overhead lights flickering on as he hits the switch. They buzz, a low, annoying hum that gets under his skin, but he’s used to it by now. It’s part of the ambiance, part of the daily grind that he’s resigned himself to.
He lets his mind wander, lets it drift to the thought of what it would look like if he finally gave in, if he finally did what he’s been thinking about for so long. He imagines the crimson splatters on the walls, the way the blood would drip down slow, like honey, thick and warm. It’s a comforting thought, a calming one, more so today than it usually is.
His eyes trace the familiar surroundings, the dirty tables, the floor sticky with spilled soda and crumbs. The till sits behind the counter, silent and untouched, waiting for the morning rush that never really comes.
Nigel makes his way to the back, past the till, past the fridge where they keep the burgers, the asshole boss still nowhere to be seen. Thank fuck for that. That man’s a special kind of prick, the kind that could set off a saint, let alone someone like Nigel. He pushes open the door to the small locker room, grabbing the mop and bucket, his mind still half-lost in the visions of blood and metal and finality. It’s a routine, one he knows by heart, one he’s been doing every day since he started working here. Except for the weekends.
Weekends are for drinking himself into oblivion.
He pauses for a moment, the mop in one hand, the bucket in the other, his eyes drawn to the locker next to his. It’s covered in stickers, little space-themed ones, stars and planets and meteorites, all of them peeling at the edges, worn from time and touch. It’s a small thing, a stupid thing, but it always makes him stop, makes him feel something he can’t quite name. Something that’s not anger, something that’s almost… soft. He stares at it for a long moment, chewing on his lip, before he shakes his head and turns away, dragging the mop back out to the main area.
By the time he’s finished mopping, the floor gleaming wet under the fluorescent lights, he knows something’s different today. It’s a feeling deep in his chest. It’s like doom.
Nigel ends up by the door, mopping the stained linoleum with lazy, half-hearted strokes, the bristles of the mop dragging through the murky brown water that spreads across the floor. The bucket at his side, dented and withering the edges, holds water so filthy it looks more like mud. His shoulders slump forward as he leans into the mop handle, fingers gripping the splintered wood with a force born out of habit rather than any real effort.
The bell above the door jangles suddenly, a sharp, grating sound that cuts through the dull hum of the overhead lights. Nigel barely lifts his head, eyes narrowing into slits as he glances toward the entrance, already knowing who it is. He doesn’t need to look, but he does, out of habit.
And there he is, the kid, stepping in like he always does, the same awkward shuffle in his walk, the same downcast eyes that never quite meet Nigel’s. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights, jumpy, like he’s expecting something bad to happen any second. The kid’s uniform hangs off his slight frame, the polyester fabric swishing with each hesitant step. It’s too big on him, the sleeves swallowing his thin arms, the pants bunched around his ankles. The nametag, pinned to his chest, catches the light for a brief moment, the letters spelling out “Raki” in cheap, faded print. Nigel thinks it doesn’t suit him, the name.
His eyes, though—they’re the worst. Nigel can’t get a good look at them because the kid’s always looking away, always darting glances at the floor or the walls, anywhere but at Nigel. His cap, worn and faded, sits low on his head, the brim casting a shadow over his face, hiding those eyes that Nigel’s so curious about. The curls underneath are neat, almost too neat.
There’s something about the way he walks, something unsure, like he doesn’t quite know where he’s going or why he’s even here. His steps are small, almost timid, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. He reminds Nigel of a small, fragile thing lost in a forest full of predators, unaware of the dangers lurking just out of sight. The kind of creature that doesn’t stand a chance if something decides to go after it. It’s impossible not to notice him.
Usually, the kid just walks in, head down, shuffling past Nigel without so much as a glance. But today, something’s different. Today, as he moves past Nigel, he does something unexpected. He lifts his head, just for a second, and there’s this tiny, almost imperceptible smile on his lips, a soft curve that could be mistaken for a trick of the light.
“Hi, Nigel,” he says, and his voice is as soft as his smile, barely more than a whisper, like he’s afraid of being too loud.
Nigel stops mopping. He just stops, the mop freezing mid-swipe, dirty water dripping from the bristles onto the already filthy floor. It’s such a small thing, that greeting, but it hits him like a punch to the gut. Nobody talks to him, not really. People come and go, they give him orders, tell him what to do, but they don’t talk to him, don’t acknowledge him as a person. He’s just part of the scenery, another broken piece of this place. But this kid, this shy, awkward kid with the too-big uniform and the too-small voice, he sees Nigel. He sees him and he says hi.
For a moment, Nigel doesn’t know what to do. He just stares at the kid, at the way he’s already turning away, heading for the locker in the back, the one with the peeling star stickers on it. That locker’s his, the kid’s, the one spot in this whole place that’s his own. Nigel watches him go, the mop still hanging limp in his hand, and feels something strange crawl up his skin. It’s like a swarm of tiny, fuzzy caterpillars, their little legs tickling him as they move. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, one that makes him shift his weight.
He forgot he could be noticed, that he could be real. He forces himself to keep mopping, the movements automatic, but his mind isn’t on the task. He watches the kid out of the corner of his eye as he walks into the locker room, moving with the same careful precision he always does, following the same path, making the same motions. Every day, it’s the same thing. The kid comes in, goes to his locker, and gets ready for work.
Nigel’s seen it a hundred times, knows every step the kid will take, every action he’ll perform. It’s like watching a machine, one that’s been programmed to repeat the same sequence over and over again. But today, the kid’s greeting, that tiny smile, it’s a crack in the pattern, a ripple in the still waters of Nigel’s world. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know why it’s happening, but it’s there.
The kid comes out of the locker room, his uniform looking no less baggy on him than before. Nigel knows where he’s headed. He’ll go straight to the stack of trays by the soda machine, set them up, and get to work like always. But as he watches, mop moving in slow, distracted swipes, the kid stops. He hesitates, standing there with the tray in his hands, fingers twitching like he’s nervous about something. His eyes are still hidden under the brim of that damn cap, but there’s a tension in his posture, a tightness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.
And then, in that same soft, hesitant voice, the kid speaks. “Do you know who’s working today?”
Nigel doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know why the kid’s talking to him, why he’s asking questions. It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. They’re supposed to ignore each other, never intersecting, never interacting.
He thinks of the locker with the star stickers, the way it stands out in the dingy, gray room, a tiny splash of color in a sea of monotony. He thinks of how that locker makes him feel something too, something he can’t quite name, something that gnaws at him every time he looks at it. Is this kid some kind of message, some sign from God? An angel sent down in the form of an awkward, shy kid to pull him out of the dark pit he’s been sinking into? Nigel almost laughs at the thought. He’s too far gone for saving, too deep in the muck to ever climb out.
But still, he forgets about the gleaming thing in his car for a second.
Before Nigel can respond, before he can figure out what to say or how to deal with this unexpected conversation, a car pulls up outside. He glances out the grimy window, feeling the tension coil tighter in his gut. Chris and Jess.
Chris strides in first with Jess right behind him, practically glued to his side. They’re always like this, always together, always touching. It makes Nigel sick, the way they can’t keep their hands off each other, like they’re trying to prove something to the world. Jess’s hand is hooked around Chris’s arm, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, and Chris’s other hand is resting low on her hip, pulling her close. Their heads are tilted towards each other, their lips almost brushing, eyes locked like they’re the only two people in the world.
Nigel feels his grip on the mop tighten. He hates them. Hates the way they flaunt their affection, the way they act like they’re the stars of some romantic movie, the way they think they’re better than everyone else. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together as he watches them, that bitter taste rising in his mouth again. He thinks about the shotgun again.
A sound cuts through his thoughts, a small, disappointed “Oh,” from the kid. It’s barely audible, just a whisper, but it’s enough to pull Nigel back to reality, to remind him of where he is, of who he is.
They end up in the locker room when their boss gets there. Hardy’s footsteps are heavy, each one a thud against the linoleum, like he’s trying to make sure everyone knows he’s here. He’s got that stupid red tie on, the one that’s too tight around his thick neck, and his moustache is as greasy as the food they serve.
Nigel leans back against the wall, the mop forgotten, as Hardy strides in, his beady eyes scanning the room. There’s a scowl on his face, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval as he takes in the scene. He claps his hands together, a sharp, loud sound that echoes through the room, trying to get everyone’s attention.
Nigel almost smiles at the tension, almost enjoys watching Hardy struggle to maintain control. But then Hardy’s eyes land on him, and the almost-smile disappears. “Nigel,” Hardy barks, pointing at him with one thick finger, “you’re cleaning the dining room today.”
Nigel doesn’t move, doesn’t nod, just stares back at Hardy. He doesn’t care what Hardy wants, doesn’t care about the orders, the rules, the expectations. Hardy’s just another asshole in a long line of assholes, just another guy who thinks he’s got power when he doesn’t. Nigel’s long past caring about people like Hardy, people who think they can push him around. He’s seen it all before, heard it all before.
Hardy can bark all he wants, but Nigel’s not listening, not really. He’s too busy watching, waiting, feeling that itch under his skin.
His eyes flick to the kid, just for a moment, and he sees the way Raki straightens up, the way he tries to look confident, like he’s not scared, like he’s not waiting for Hardy to snap at him too. The kid’s good at pretending, Nigel will give him that. But he can see the fear, the tension, the way Raki’s eyes flicker with something close to panic when Hardy’s gaze sweeps over him. The kid’s standing there, trying so hard to be what Hardy wants him to be, trying so hard to please, to impress, and it’s almost sad.
Nigel feels that itch again. He watches the kid, watches the way his hands fidget, the way his shoulders hunch just a little. Hardy’s focus shifts, and Nigel knows what’s coming next, knows that Hardy’s going to point at the kid, going to put him on front window, where everyone can see him, where he can’t hide.
Sure enough, Hardy’s finger points at Raki, and he gives the order, tells the kid to man the window. And Raki, like the good little soldier he is, nods, just like always, eyes still glued to the floor, still too scared to meet Hardy’s gaze.
Nigel raises an eyebrow, watching the whole scene play out, wondering how the fuck someone can be so beaten down, so controlled. It’s not worth it, he thinks. Not worth the trouble, not worth the pain. But the kid, he doesn’t seem to see it that way. He’s still trying, still holding on to something that Nigel can’t even begin to understand. The urge to laugh bubbles up in Nigel’s throat, but it gets stuck, turns into a bitter taste on his tongue that he swallows down.
He tunes them all out as Chris gets yelled at for leaving food out under the heat lamps. Fucking idiot.
Hardy finally sends them off, and Nigel is the first to move, pushing away from the wall. But he stops, just for a second, when Hardy calls the kid into his office. There’s something about the way the kid stays back with Nigel, just for a split second, that makes him pause. Something that makes Nigel’s chest tighten, makes that itch flare up again, stronger than before.
But Nigel shakes it off, pushes it down, tries to ignore it. It’s not his problem. Not his circus, not his fucking monkeys. He’s got enough on his plate. The kid’s just another pawn in the game and Nigel’s not about to get involved.
Chris bumps into the kid’s shoulder as he passes by, shoving him aside like he’s nothing, like he’s not even there. And the kid, he just takes it. He’s used to it, like he expects it, like he knows he’s not worth fighting for. Nigel watches it all unfold, the way the kid steps aside, lets Chris push him around, and it makes him want to lash out, to break something, anything.
But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, watching the kid disappear into Hardy’s office, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
The mop slides sluggishly over the grimy floor again by the time the kid walks out of the back room with a different energy, like he’s trying to act like whatever Hardy told him back there made him something more than what he is. But there’s still that nervous jitter to him, the way his fingers can’t stop moving, pulling at the frayed edges of his uniform, the way his feet hesitate, never fully committing to a step. He heads back to the counter, to the red plastic trays that he’s been trying to stack all morning.
Nigel’s eyes keep drifting over to him, can’t stop themselves. Chris is perched on the counter, legs swinging back and forth. Jess is over by the soda machine, pretending to clean the napkin dispenser, but really, she’s positioning herself just so, hips cocked to the side, legs encased in those ratty fishnets she’s always wearing. Her eyes keep flicking back to Chris, like she needs his attention to breathe, like the moment his gaze slips away, she’ll wither and die.
Nigel keeps his head down, keeps mopping, but his eyes are everywhere. They flick from the kid, still stacking trays with trembling hands, to Chris, who’s starting to look bored, that dangerous kind of bored that always ends in someone getting hurt. Nigel’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as he forces himself to focus on the floor, on the way the mop handle vibrates slightly in his grip, the rhythm of the swish, swish, swish as he pushes it back and forth. But it’s no use; he can feel the tension ratcheting up, the air in the room growing thicker, heavier.
Chris’s feet hit the floor with a loud thud. He’s up in a flash, zeroing in on the kid like a wolf scenting blood. Nigel knows what’s coming; he’s seen it a hundred times before, and yet it never gets easier to watch.
Chris barrels into the kid, slamming his chest against the kid’s back with enough force to make him stumble. The kid’s body goes rigid, every muscle tensing like a cornered animal, but he doesn’t fight back. He just stands there, frozen, his hands clutching the tray so tightly Nigel can see the blood draining from his knuckles, leaving them bone-white.
“What were you doing back there, huh? Sucking Hardy off?”
The kid doesn’t say a word. He’s locked in place, staring straight ahead, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Wasn’t talking about me, was he?” Chris presses. When the kid still doesn’t respond, Chris’s patience snaps. He slams his hand down on the counter with a loud crack. The kid jumps, the tray slipping from his grasp, clattering to the floor in a spray of cheap plastic.
Nigel watches from the corner of his eye as Chris’s arm tightens around the kid’s shoulders, pulling him in close, too close, until the kid is practically shrinking under his touch.
The kid’s voice comes out in a stammer, barely above a whisper, “No,” he says, his eyes darting to the floor, anywhere but at Chris. He tries to push him off, but it’s a half-hearted effort.
If it were Nigel, if he were in the kid’s place, Chris would be on the floor right now, blood pouring from his broken nose, but this kid… this kid doesn’t have that fight in him. It’s like he’s already given up, already decided that there’s no point in resisting.
“I promise,” the kid adds, his voice shaking, his gaze still fixed firmly on the dirty tiles. It’s pathetic, really, and it makes Nigel’s stomach churn with a mix of disgust and something else. He half wants to step in, to shove Chris away and tell the kid to grow a backbone, but he doesn’t. He just keeps mopping.
Chris’s sneer deepens, his lip curling as he yanks the kid’s hat off his head, his dirty fingers digging into the kid’s curly hair, messing it up with rough, careless strokes. “Good,” he says. “Cause if you’re lying, you’re dead.” He shoves the hat back at the kid, who fumbles to catch it, his hands shaking as he jams it back onto his head.
The kid takes a deep breath, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to do something, like he might finally snap. But then he just turns back to the trays, picking them up one by one. Nigel doesn’t fucking get it—doesn’t get why the kid doesn’t fight back, doesn’t get why he just takes it. It’s like he’s got no fire, no anger, nothing.
Nigel pulls his hat down lower over his eyes, trying to block out the sight, but it’s no use. He’s still watching, still feeling that strange mix of emotions twisting in his gut. It’s not like he gives a shit about the kid, not really, but there’s something about this whole scene that rubs him raw, that makes him want to do something, anything, other than keep mopping this goddamn floor.
Chris, bored with his latest plaything, saunters over to the intercom, his eyes lighting up with that same mean spark as he flicks it on, making the mic squeal with feedback. Nigel’s head snaps up at the sound, his glare sharp enough to cut, but Chris doesn’t even notice. His attention is on Jess now, his eyes raking over her as she struts toward him, her hips swaying.
Nigel circles them, the mop sloshing through the filthy water in the bucket. Chris’s voice crackles through the intercom, loud and obnoxious as he starts chanting lewd remarks about Jess’s body. Jess plays along, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her laughter bright.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nigel sees the kid twitch, sees him set down the trays with a shaky breath. His hands flutter up to his ears, then back down, like he’s not sure what to do with them, like he wants to block out the noise, or maybe tear his own ears off. And then, in a voice so quiet Nigel almost doesn’t catch it, the kid says, “C-Chris, stop.”
Chris freezes, his hand hovering over the intercom, and then he turns. There’s a smile on his face, a smug, twisted thing. Chris sets the mic down, the squeal of feedback fading into a heavy silence, and saunters over to the kid.
“What’d you say?” Chris’s voice is all mock innocence, his smile widening as he gets right up in the kid’s face.
“You’re hurting my ears,” the kid finally manages to get out, his voice trembling but steady enough. Nigel feels a flicker of something like pride, a rare emotion these days. Chris laughs, a harsh, barking sound that grates on Nigel’s nerves. He claps his hands right in the kid’s face, making him flinch, making that small spark of defiance flicker and die. “What’s got you all high and mighty?”
Nigel keeps mopping.
“Got a new girlfriend?” Chris asks, his eyes narrowing as he glances back at Jess, who’s still playing her part, still laughing. “No, can’t be. Boyfriend?” The kid’s face flushes, a deep pink that spreads up his neck, turning his ears red.
Nigel catches that blush, and it stirs something else in him, something uncomfortable, something that makes his chest tighten the way it does when he looks at that old space locker in the back. Chris softens his stance, laying it on thick, all sweet and caring, and Nigel can see the kid’s posture shift, like he’s about to fall for it.
“Come on, Raki,” Chris says, his voice low and coaxing, like he’s trying to lull a frightened animal. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” He reaches out, his hand sliding down the kid’s shoulder, and Nigel’s teeth grind together, the sharp pain in his jaw barely registering.
The shotgun says his name. He ignores it.
“Did you ask a girl out and she turned you down? Told you she’d never fuck a loser like you?”
The kid’s voice is barely a whisper as he asks Chris to stop again, but it’s a futile request, and they both know it. Chris’s smile widens, his eyes glittering with malice as he struts over to the counter, grabbing the old, stale burger he left under the heat lamps hours ago.
Chris waves the burger in front of the kid’s face. “Eat this burger,” he says, his voice daring, taunting, “and then I’ll shut up.”
The kid’s hands tremble as he stares down at the burger, the once-yellow bun now a sickly shade of green, speckled with fuzzy patches of mold that spread like a disease over the meat. The greasy patty is half-disintegrated, sagging under the weight of congealed, sour-smelling cheese that’s hardened into a fucking crust. His fingers twitch around the foil as he grabs it, crinkling the edges as he tries to hold steady, but his grip falters, and the burger almost slips from his grasp.
Chris is enjoying this, every second of it, and Nigel can see it clear as day. Chris’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the countertop.
“Come on,” Chris drawls, “Eat the burger, and then you won’t have to deal with my shit for the rest of the day.”
Nigel knows the game Chris is playing—he’s seen it a thousand times before, in a thousand different places. People like Chris, they get off on this kind of shit, on the power they hold over someone weaker, someone who can’t or won’t fight back.
It’s a sick kind of thrill, watching someone squirm, knowing they’re trapped, knowing there’s nothing they can do but obey.
Nigel stops mopping.
His fingers curl around the handle of the mop, the rough wood biting into his palms as he leans against it.
The kid’s shoulders hunch inward, his head dipping lower. The brim is pulled low over his face, hiding his eyes, but Nigel can see the way his body trembles, the slight quiver in his knees as he stands there, frozen. His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice.
Nigel clenches his jaw, his teeth grinding together so hard it sends a jolt of pain shooting up through his temples. The kid tilts slightly toward him, just the barest hint of movement, as if seeking some kind of silent support, some reassurance that he’s not completely alone in this.
“Chris,” Nigel says, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding underfoot. “Stop.”
The word is simple, unadorned, but there’s a weight to it that hangs in the air, heavy and foreboding. But Chris, the fucking idiot, doesn’t hear the warning in Nigel’s voice. Or maybe he hears it and just doesn’t give a shit. Hardy said once that Chris had his dick in his ears, and Nigel is starting to think he might’ve been right.
Chris doesn’t look up immediately, too absorbed in his own sadistic amusement, but when he does, it’s with a raised eyebrow and a look of feigned surprise. “What?”
The kid shuffles a step closer to Nigel, his head still bowed, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts.
Nigel straightens up, pushing off from the mop, his movements measured and controlled. He widens his stance, planting his feet firmly on the ground, his shoulders squaring as he locks eyes with Chris. There’s a shift in the room, a subtle change in the atmosphere as the others—Jess, even the kid—seem to sense that something is different now.
“You should stop now,” Nigel says. He doesn’t break Chris’s gaze, doesn’t let his eyes waver or soften. They remain flat, cold, like twin pools of dark water reflecting nothing but emptiness.
For a moment, Chris hesitates, the smirk faltering as he stares back at Nigel, trying to read the expression—or lack thereof—on his face. But whatever doubt or fear that might have flickered in Chris’s mind is quickly snuffed out, replaced by anger, by the need to assert his dominance, to prove that he’s still in control.
Jess sees it too, the shift in Chris’s posture, the way his fists clench at his sides, and she tries to step in, tries to stop him before things go too far. But Chris ignores her, shrugging off her attempts to calm him down as he takes a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Nigel.
He’s taller than Nigel, by a good few inches, but there’s nothing to him—just skin and bone and a mean streak a mile wide. He gets right up in Nigel’s face, close enough that Nigel can smell the sour stench of sweat and cheap beer on his breath.
“Nigel,” Chris says. “Why the fuck do you care?”
Nigel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at Chris, his face a blank slate, eyes devoid of any emotion. The kid’s still watching them, but Nigel doesn’t look at him, doesn’t let his gaze waver from Chris’s. He stands there, silent, his hands tightening around the mop handle.
Why does he fucking care? It’s a question that echoes in Nigel’s mind, bouncing around like a loose screw in an empty can. He doesn’t know why he cares today, why this particular scene is affecting him more than any of the others he’s witnessed. Maybe it’s the kid, the way he looks so damn scared, so damn small. Maybe it’s something else, something buried deep inside Nigel that he’s been trying to ignore for too long.
But it doesn’t matter. Not really.
“You made your point,” Nigel says. “You made it a while ago. And now you’re just being a dick.”
From outside, the voice calling Nigel’s name grows louder, more insistent, but it’s drowned out by the pounding of blood in his ears, the rush of adrenaline that surges through his veins. Chris slams his hand down on Nigel’s shoulder. The grip is hard, fingers digging into the muscle with a bruising force, but Nigel doesn’t flinch.
“I’ve never had a problem with you, Nigel,” Chris says. “But if you try and tell me what I can and cannot fucking do, I will have no problem turning your existence into a living hell.”
Nigel’s gaze drifts away from Chris, his eyes sliding over to the kid, who’s still standing there, frozen in place. The kid’s whole body is tense, his muscles locked up with fear, but there’s something else there too—a spark of defiance, a flicker of something that Nigel almost misses.
Nigel’s mind flashes with an image—a glint of metal, the smooth edge of metal catching the light, bright and tempting. Nigel glances back at Chris, his voice flat, emotionless.
“Sure.”
For a moment, Nigel feels a small surge of pride for the kid again, for that tiny spark of resistance he thought he saw. But it’s gone in an instant, snuffed out like a candle in the wind as Chris turns back.
“Come on,” Chris whispers, leaning in close. “You know what to do.”
The words are a command, and the kid’s body responds automatically, his hands shaking as he unwraps the burger. The foil crinkles loudly in the otherwise silent room.
“Faster,” Chris snaps.
The kid’s fingers fumble with the burger, the patty almost slipping from his grasp as he brings it to his mouth.
Chris watches, his breath hitching slightly as the kid takes a bite. The room is so quiet that Nigel can hear the squish of the rotten burger as the kid’s teeth sink into it, the sound mingling with the soft sobs that escape the boy’s lips. Tears streak down the kid’s face, dripping off his chin as he chews, his body trembling with each forced swallow.
Nigel’s teeth grind together, the pressure building in his skull, a throbbing pulse that beats in time with his racing heart. He doesn’t fucking understand why the kid doesn’t fight back, why he lets Chris treat him like this.
The voice calling Nigel’s name from outside is louder now, more frantic, no longer the sweet, lilting tone it was before. It’s harsh, grating, each repetition of his name like a spike driven into his skull. Chris and Jess’s laughter rings in Nigel’s ears.
The tension in the room is palpable, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Nigel’s chest like a vise. The kid’s quiet sobs, the mocking laughter, the voice screaming his name—they all blend together into a whirlwind of noise that swirls around Nigel’s head, drowning out his thoughts, his reason.
And then, just like that, something inside Nigel snaps.
He cracks his neck, the loud pop echoing through the room like a gunshot. Nigel doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s halfway to the door, pushing it open and stepping outside. The air hits him like a slap in the face. He walks to his car, his steps slow and measured, like a man on a Sunday stroll, his mind eerily calm in the aftermath of his decision.
The cigarette pack lies on the passenger seat, half-crushed and stained with old coffee spills. Nigel grabs it, pulling out a bent, slightly stale cigarette and lighting it with practiced ease. He’s smoking, half because it calms him, and half because he wants the kid to deal with the consequences of not fucking reacting. The first drag is harsh, the smoke burning his throat and filling his lungs with a familiar, comforting warmth. He breathes out slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air.
He knows now.
He knows what he has to do. He’s known it for a while now, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself until this moment. The idea has been festering in the back of his mind, growing like a cancer, eating away at him until there’s nothing left but this one, final decision. It’s not about revenge, not really. It’s not even about anger. It’s about purpose—something he’s never really had before. But now, he feels like he’s finally found it.
Nigel doesn’t get it—never has. The kid, with his stupid space stickers, always doing his best, always trying so fucking hard, like it means something. Like any of this shit means anything at all. The kid’s too good for this place, too good for this life. He doesn’t deserve to be stuck in this shithole, surrounded by people like Chris and Jess, who wouldn’t know real effort if it bit them in the ass.
But the kid keeps going, keeps working, day after day, like he’s got something to prove. Maybe he does. Maybe he thinks if he just works hard enough, keeps his head down, he’ll make something of himself, escape this hellhole. But Nigel knows better. He’s seen too much, lived through too much, to believe in bullshit like that. Life doesn’t get better. It just gets worse, until you can’t take it anymore and you do something about it.
Maybe that’s why the kid is different. The only one who ever saw Nigel, really saw him. The only one who bothered to say hi, who treated him like he was a real person and not just another piece of the scenery, another worthless cog in the machine. The kid’s got potential—Nigel can see it, even if no one else does. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough reason to do what he’s about to do.
Nigel flicks the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it under his boot until it’s nothing but ash and charred paper. He takes one last look at the building, the place he’s been working at for months now, a place that’s sucked the life out of him, drained him of whatever hope he had left. But he doesn’t feel any guilt. Instead, he feels something else—something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. A vague sense of motivation, of purpose. Like maybe, for the first time in years, he’s got a reason to keep going.
The car door creaks as he reaches inside, pulling out the shotgun.
It’s heavy in his hands. He slams the door shut and starts walking toward the building, each step measured. His heartbeat is steady, a slow, rhythmic thud in his chest. The shotgun rests comfortably in his grip, the cool metal soothing against his skin.
He pushes open the glass doors, the bell above tinkling softly. He’s calm, more so than he’s been in a long time. No clenched teeth, no headache pounding in his skull, no hunger gnawing at him from the inside out. Just… calm.
Nigel doesn’t let his gaze linger on any of the place. He doesn’t need to. He’s seen it all before, lived it day in and day out. But today, it’s different. Today, he’s going to change things. He’s going to make this place mean something, even if it’s only for a moment.
Chris and Jess are by the booths, laughing at something, probably something stupid, something that doesn’t matter. They’re always laughing, always joking around like life’s just one big fucking party. It makes Nigel sick. They don’t see him yet, don’t notice the shotgun in his hands. They’re too wrapped up in their own little world, too comfortable in their ignorance.
The kid’s over by the counter, stacking the fucking trays, his cheeks wet with tears. Nigel sees the way his hands shake, the way he keeps his head down, like if he just focuses on the task in front of him, everything else will disappear.
But it won’t. It never does.
Nigel watches the kid for a moment, something tightening in his chest. The kid’s so goddamn innocent, so naive. He doesn’t deserve this, any of it. And maybe that’s why Nigel’s here, why he’s doing this. To make sure the kid doesn’t end up like him, like Chris, like Jess. To give him a chance, a real chance, at something better.
Chris looks up first. “Where were you, buddy?”
Nigel fucking hates him.
Nigel raises the shotgun. Chris’s eyes widen, panic flickering across his face as he realizes what’s about to happen. “What the fu—” he starts, but he doesn’t get to finish. Nigel pulls the trigger.
Chris is thrown backward, his body slamming into one of the booth seats with a thud. Blood and guts explode from the wound, painting the wall behind him in a mural of red and black. The smell of gunpowder mixes with the stench of blood and grease, creating a nauseating cocktail that clings to the back of Nigel’s throat. He just stands there, staring at the mess he’s made, feeling nothing but strange satisfaction.
For a moment, the world seems to stop, everything frozen in that single, violent instant. Then, Jess screams, a high-pitched, keening wail that slices through the air, tearing at Nigel’s already frayed nerves. It’s desperate, terrified, and annoying.
He didn’t know she could scream like that. Didn’t know she had it in her. He watches her, her face twisted in horror, her eyes wide and wild as she stares at the blood, at the body of Chris slumped against the booth. But Nigel doesn’t feel sorry for her. She should’ve seen this coming. She should’ve known.
Chris isn’t dead yet, though. Not completely. His body twitches, his hands scrabbling weakly at the seat, trying to find something, anything to hold onto. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused, but there’s still a flicker of life in them, a spark of defiance, of desperation. He’s trying to hold on, trying to fight, even though it’s pointless, even though he’s already lost.
Nigel takes a step forward, the shotgun still raised, his gaze locked on Chris. He watches the way Chris’s fingers claw at the vinyl seat, leaving streaks of blood behind. It’s pitiful, really—watching someone like him struggle. The man who always thought he was on top, always acted like he owned the place, now reduced to a bleeding, broken mess. Nigel’s lips curl into something like a sneer.
Jess is still screaming, her voice a grating, endless wail that echoes through the small, grimy restaurant. Nigel can’t stand it—her shrill voice cutting through the calm that’s settled over him, disrupting the peace he’s found in this moment. He clenches his jaw, trying to block out the noise, trying to focus on what he’s here to do.
Chris’s eyes meet Nigel’s for a brief, agonizing moment—wide, bloodshot, filled with terror. There’s no recognition in them, no understanding, just raw, animal fear. And maybe that’s what Nigel wanted to see all along. He wanted Chris to know, to understand, but now that he’s looking at him, he realizes it doesn’t matter. Chris was always too stupid, too self-absorbed to ever get it.
Nigel tightens his grip on the shotgun. He doesn’t say anything—there’s nothing left to say. He just pulls the trigger again, the blast echoing in the small space, drowning out Jess’s screams for a brief, blissful moment.
The shot hits Chris square in the head, and this time, there’s no coming back. His skull shatters under the force, spraying blood and brain matter in all directions, some of it splattering onto Jess, painting her face and hair with the remnants of the man she used to laugh with, joke with, maybe even love. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does.
Chris’s body slumps forward, lifeless now, nothing but a heap of flesh and bone crumpled in the booth. The blood pools beneath him, thick and dark, seeping into the cracks in the floor, spreading. Nigel watches it, almost mesmerized by the way it moves, the way it creeps across the dirty tiles, claiming the space as its own.
Jess’s screams turn into sobs, deep, wracking sounds that shake her whole body. She’s covered in Chris’s blood, her hands trembling as she wipes at her face, smearing the red across her skin, making her look like something out of a nightmare.
Nigel watches her, wondering if this is what she wanted, if this intimacy is what she was looking for. He did her a favor, really. Now she and Chris are connected in a way most people never are.
Nigel's head snaps up as Hardy bursts out of the back room. He’s surprised Hardy heard the screaming over the fucking porno Nigel knows he was watching. Hardy’s face is flushed, his wide eyes darting around the room as he tries to piece together what the hell is happening. The man’s gut hangs over the waistband of his pants, his shirt untucked and stained with grease. He freezes when his gaze lands on Nigel, his eyes locking onto the shotgun.
Nigel feels nothing as he reloads the shotgun, the motion smooth, automatic. There’s no rush, no urgency. Hardy’s face drains of color as the realization hits him, his bravado evaporating in an instant. The man’s lips tremble. For a moment, they just stare at each other, Hardy’s breath coming in quick, panicked gasps while Nigel’s remains steady.
Nigel can almost see the gears turning in his head, the pathetic little calculations Hardy’s making—how far the door is, how fast he could run, whether he could make it out alive.
But they both know the answer.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Nigel’s voice is low, almost conversational, as if they’re discussing something as mundane as the weather, not the fact that he’s about to blow the man’s brains out. He cocks the shotgun, making Hardy flinch.
Hardy’s lips tremble as he takes a step back, his body bumping against the counter, trapping him between it and Nigel. “Nigel…c’mon, man…we can talk about this…we can work something out…” His voice is shaky, desperate, the words spilling out in a rush as if he thinks he can somehow talk his way out of this, like this is just another shitty deal he can negotiate.
Hardy’s eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape that isn’t there. His back is pressed against the counter now, his hands raised in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. “Please, don’t, don’t do this…we can fix this…we can—” The words die in his throat as Nigel takes a step closer, the shotgun aimed squarely at Hardy’s chest.
Hardy’s body jerks violently, his eyes widening in shock as the impact sends him stumbling backward. Blood sprays from the gaping wound in his chest, splattering the counter and the floor in thick, dark droplets.
Hardy’s hands clutch at the wound, his fingers slick with blood as he tries to stem the flow, but it’s pointless. The sight is pathetic, really.
He turns away from the body, the shotgun still in his hands, and starts walking toward Jess. She doesn’t see him at first, too caught up in her own horror, her own grief. But then she looks up, her eyes wide and filled with terror. She scrambles back, pressing herself against the table, her breath coming in quick, panicked gasps.
Nigel doesn’t hurry. He takes his time, each step slow, savoring the way her eyes widen with every inch he closes between them. There’s no rush. He’s got all the time in the world now. The chaos around him seems distant, like it’s happening to someone else, somewhere else. The only thing that matters is the calm, the strange sense of peace that’s settled over him, the feeling that for once, he’s in control.
He raises the shotgun, pointing it at her chest, watching the way her eyes flicker with realization, with the understanding that this is it, that there’s no escaping what’s coming.
She screams again, louder this time, the sound piercing, shrill, making his teeth grind together.
“Shut the fuck up!” he shouts, the words ripped from his throat in a snarl, his finger tightening on the trigger.
The blast echoes through the restaurant, and Jess’s scream cuts off abruptly, her body jerking as the shot hits her. She’s thrown back, slamming into the table, her blood spraying, mingling with the grease and grime that’s accumulated over the years. She crumples to the floor, her body a broken, bloody mess, her eyes wide and unseeing, her mouth still open.
Fucking finally.
Nigel doesn’t lower the shotgun, his breath coming in slow, even puffs. The air is thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and burnt flesh. He just stands there, staring at Jess’s lifeless body, feeling the weight of what he’s done settle over him.
For a moment, he’s tempted to turn the shotgun on himself, to end it all here and now. It would be so easy—just one more pull of the trigger, and he wouldn’t have to feel anything anymore. He wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath. He could just disappear, leave this world behind, and take the easy way out.
But then he hears it—a soft, muffled sound, almost drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He turns, slowly, his eyes scanning the room until they land on the kid, still standing there, rooted to the spot, his small frame trembling, his hands clenched at his sides.
The kid hasn’t moved, hasn’t screamed, hasn’t done anything but watch as Nigel destroyed everything, as he painted the walls with blood and gore. His face is pale, his cheeks streaked with tears, but there’s something, something that stops Nigel in his tracks.
Blue.
Those eyes—Jesus, those fucking eyes.
Cobalt, cornflower, carolina—every shade of blue Nigel’s ever seen, all rolled into one, staring up at him with a mixture of fear, confusion, and something else, something Nigel can’t quite place. He’s never looked at Nigel before. Not like this.
Nigel’s hand grips tighter as he keeps the shotgun leveled at the kid, the barrel wavering slightly as he stares down the length of it.
The kid’s shoulders are hunched up so high they’re practically touching his fucking ears. He looks tiny, dwarfed by the room, by the situation, by Nigel’s looming presence. His bottom lip is trembling too, a faint quiver that gives away just how scared he is, and the tears falling, slipping down his cheeks in slow, uneven streams.
He looks fragile, breakable, like one wrong move might shatter him into a million pieces. And he’s just standing there, not moving, not making a fucking sound. For a moment, it pisses Nigel off, a flash of irritation that sparks in his chest. Why the hell isn’t he moving? He could, if he wanted to. Nigel’d let him. Hell, he almost wants the kid to make a break for it, to scream, to fight back, to do something—anything—other than just standing there and taking it.
Nigel just killed three people right in front of him, and the kid hasn’t said a goddamn word. Not a single sound. He could be yelling, calling Nigel insane, a monster, a psychopath. He could be reaching for his phone, dialing 911, begging for help. Nigel would let him. But he doesn’t. All he does is stand there, staring at Nigel with those big, tearful eyes, like he’s waiting for something, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Nigel lets out a long, heavy sigh. He lowers the shotgun he’s still gripping, the cold metal slick with sweat from his hands. The little gasp of relief that slips from the kid’s mouth when he sees the gun go down—it’s like the air’s been let out of a balloon, soft and quiet, almost too faint to hear. But Nigel hears it, and it both comforts him and pisses him off in equal measure.
It’s the sound of someone who just realized they’re not going to die.
He starts walking. He glances back over his shoulder, just a quick look, to see if the kid will run now that Nigel’s back is turned. But he doesn’t. He just stays there, rooted to the spot, his eyes following Nigel.
Nigel circles around. The kid’s still crying, but it’s quiet now, just soft little sobs that don’t quite make it past his lips. Those big blue eyes are still locked on Nigel, tracking his movements like a lost puppy, and there’s something in that look that makes Nigel pause for a second, just a brief moment of hesitation.
Nigel’s eyes fall on Chris’s body, lying there in a pool of darkening blood. It’s a mess, a real fucking mess. The blood’s spreading out in a thick, sticky puddle, the edges already beginning to dry and crust over. It’s seeping into the cracks in the floor, staining the grout a deep, ugly red. He can see the way the light catches on it, making it shine in places, dull in others, like the blood itself is alive, still moving, still flowing even after it’s been spilled.
It had to happen, Nigel tells himself. This is what’s going to set everything in motion. This is what’s going to make things right. This is what he needed to do to help the kid, to make him see that things get fixed when you take control, when you stop being a fucking sheep and start making your own decisions. This is the first lesson he’ll teach.
Nigel pauses, just for a moment, and listens to the kid’s quiet crying. He wants him to do something. He wants him to move, to speak, to fight back. Anything. He raises a hand, gesturing towards Chris and Jess’s bodies. “Help me move these two to the back,” he says, his voice flat and cold. The kid doesn’t move.
That defiance—it grates on Nigel’s nerves now, makes his blood simmer with a slow-burning anger. Nigel locks his eyes on the kid, staring him down, waiting to see if he’ll break, if he’ll crumble under the pressure. But the kid doesn’t meet his gaze. He keeps his eyes down, focused on the floor, on the blood, on anything but Nigel.
“Raki,” Nigel says, “don’t make me do some count to ten bullshit.”
The kid’s shoulders climb even higher, if that’s even possible, and his breath comes in short, shaky gasps, like he’s trying to hold back a panic attack. Nigel waits, silent and still, just staring at the kid, letting the weight of his gaze press down on him. He knows what he looks like—splattered in blood, shotgun in hand, dead-eyed and dangerous. He knows he looks like a monster. He doesn’t care.
He starts counting, lifting one finger, then two, all in silence.
By the time he reaches three, the kid finally moves, like he’s been yanked on a leash. His eyes are glued to Nigel’s hand, to the fingers that are still counting down, and he shuffles forward with his shoulders still hunched up.
Nigel stares down at the blood, at the bodies lying in it, and lets out another heavy sigh. “Look at this fucking mess.” He sets the shotgun down on a table with a heavy thud. He grabs Chris by the shoulders, dragging him out of the booth, and grimaces as brain matter spills onto the floor in wet, sticky clumps.
“Grab a leg,” he orders, glancing at the kid just once, just to see if he’ll obey. The kid hesitates, but he does it, reaching out with shaking hands to grab one of Chris’s legs. The flesh is cold, clammy, and the kid recoils slightly at the touch, but he doesn’t let go. Nigel grunts as they start to pull, the kid’s shoulder brushing his, and he can smell the fear on him, sharp and sour like sweat. But more than that, he can feel the kid’s need to listen, to obey, to do what he’s told. It might be survival instinct, might be something deeper, but it pisses Nigel off all the same.
As they drag Chris’s body across the floor, it leaves a thick, red streak in its wake, the blood smearing and spreading like paint. By the time they get him to the back, Nigel’s shoulders are burning, his muscles aching from the effort, and he’s breathing heavily, each breath coming out in ragged gasps. He doesn’t stop, though. Doesn’t slow down. Jess’s body is next, and Nigel ends up having to hoist her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She’s heavier than she looks, her limp form sagging against him as he carries her to the freezer.
The kid’s already at the freezer, hands shaking as he fumbles with the handle. He’s frozen there, standing in front of the open door, staring into the cold darkness like he’s seeing something that isn’t there. Nigel’s breath comes out in a sharp huff, irritation flaring up again.
“Fucking move.” Nigel shoves him into the wall, just hard enough to make the kid stumble.
He dumps Jess’s body into the freezer, the lifeless form crumpling into an unnatural heap on top of the others. The sight of it—a pile of bodies stacked like discarded meat—should make him feel something, anything. But he’s numb, detached, like he’s watching it all happen from somewhere far away. He flicks the blood off his hands, the dark droplets spattering onto the floor, and straightens up, taking a step back.
The kid’s still standing there, eyes glued to the bodies like he can’t look away, like he’s trying to make sense of the horror in front of him. Nigel moves closer, his presence looming over the kid, and he watches the way those wide, blue eyes stay fixed on the carnage, the tears now drying on his cheeks. The kid’s breathing is shallow, rapid, like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating, but there’s no more sobbing, no more crying—just that blank, stunned silence.
“Where’s your phone?” Nigel asks. The kid responds immediately, almost mechanically, like he’s been waiting for a question to answer. “In my locker.” Nigel strides over to the row of lockers against the wall, yanking the kid’s open with a rough jerk.
He notices the space stickers on the locker door. This time, he lets a faint smile tug at the corners of his mouth. This time, it’s feral but at least it’s fucking real.
He snatches up the phone, shoving it into his pocket before slamming the locker shut. The kid hasn’t moved from where Nigel left him, still standing there like a statue, eyes following Nigel’s every move. Nigel moves back to the freezer, the door still open, cold air spilling out into the room. He shoves the kid aside with a rough push, shutting the door. The sound seems to jolt the kid back to reality, and he blinks, a flash of something—fear, confusion, maybe both—crossing his face.
They don’t talk as they clean up the aftermath.
Nigel grabs the fucking mop and starts scrubbing the bloodstains off the floor. The kid’s given a rag and a bucket, and he scrubs at the walls with a sad, defeated air, his movements slow and mechanical. There’s no conversation, no words exchanged, just the sound of water sloshing, of fabric scraping against tiles, of the mop’s wet swish as it drags across the floor.
By the time they’re done, the floor is a faint, mottled pink, the blood diluted and washed away, but not entirely gone. The kid’s still following Nigel’s lead, still doing what he’s told, and that obedient silence—it makes him want to shake the kid until he wakes up, until he fights back.
It’s only midday when they finally step out, the sun high in the sky, casting harsh shadows on the ground. Nigel drags the kid out by the back of his baggy shirt, the fabric bunched up in his fist as he moves him along like a doll. The kid’s light, too light, like he’s all bones under that oversized shirt, and Nigel can feel the sharp edges of his shoulder blades digging into his palm. The kid stumbles as Nigel pushes him forward, his feet dragging on the ground, but he doesn’t resist.
Nigel shuts the door behind them with a firm click, locking it tight before shoving the key into his pocket. His hand is still fisted in the kid’s shirt as he pushes him again, forcing him to move faster, to keep up with Nigel’s brisk pace. “Walk.”
He steers the kid to the passenger side of his car and forces him to stop by the door. The kid stands there, frozen, waiting for whatever comes next. Nigel strides to the trunk, popping it open with a practiced motion, and tosses the shotgun inside. The metal clinks against the hard surface, the sound sharp in the stillness.
The kid’s still just standing there, blue eyes wide and scared, like he’s waiting for instructions, for orders. He doesn’t run, doesn’t even try, even though he’s younger, faster, could probably get away if he wanted to. Nigel unbuttons his bloody shirt, revealing the plain, sweat-stained t-shirt underneath, and shrugs the dirty fabric off, tossing it into the trunk with the gun.
“Raki,” Nigel says. “I could have killed you a hundred times by now.” He raises his voice, just enough to make the kid flinch, and snaps, “Will you get in the fucking car?”
The kid flinches again, scrambling to open the passenger door and slide inside. He’s quick, almost frantic in his movements, like he’s terrified of making Nigel mad. Nigel watches him, a frown pulling at his lips, and shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Jesus Christ.” He changes his mind, grabbing the shotgun from the trunk and slamming it shut with a loud bang.
He walks around to the driver’s side, the shotgun clutched tightly in his hand, and yanks the door open. He throws the gun into the back seat, the heavy weight of it thudding against the worn upholstery. For a moment, he pauses, hands curling around the keys, feeling the cool metal press into his skin. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and then slides into the driver’s seat.
The car rumbles to life, the engine growling as it settles into a steady purr. Nigel’s hands are steady on the wheel, his mind calm, clear. He doesn’t feel regret. Doesn’t feel sick with himself. There’s no weight on his conscience, no voice in the back of his mind telling him he’s crossed a line. Instead, he feels a vague sense of renewal, of rejuvenation, like he’s just shed an old skin and stepped into something new.
He glances over at the kid, small and huddled in the passenger seat. The kid’s eyes are stuck to the view outside the windshield, staring at the barren landscape with a blank, wide-eyed look. His hands are clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white from the pressure.
There he is, Nigel’s purpose in this godforsaken fucking world, wrapped up in one blue-eyed trembling, fragile frame.