July 14th, 2025
At The Fast Food Restaurant - 12:23 PM
Another day, another dollar for Ian.
The hiss of oil, the crackle of grease, the clatter of trays and fryer baskets — it was all white noise now. A violent, consistent hum that lived inside Ian Everhart's skull day and night.
Tokyo's fast food scene was a war zone disguised as convenience.
Behind the kitchen's sweltering line, Ian moved like a machine — apron stained, sleeves rolled, hoodie underneath soaked with sweat. His fingers danced from buns to meat, ketchup to lettuce, wrapping paper to the heat lamp. He didn't flinch when the fryer popped. He didn't react when someone cursed behind him. This was normal.
This was hell.
He was cooking six different orders at once — burgers, nuggets, rice bowls. The grill sizzled as he flipped patties with the grace of muscle memory. He never looked up, just focused. Precise. Efficient. Detached.
Until—
"Ian!" Someone yelled his name.
The bark came from the front. Loud. Cutting.
He looked up, instantly annoyed.
Manager Kuwabara stomped toward him, round and red in the face, a clipboard clutched like a weapon. His moustache twitched like a bug about to sting.
"You call this cooked?" Kuwabara slammed a bunless patty down on the counter like a judge issuing a sentence. "Half-bloody raw!"
Ian blinked. "That's medium. The patty's been seared, temp's right. I know what I—"
"Are you the customer now?" Kuwabara growled.
"You serve this garbage to someone who paid money?" Kuwabara added.
"I checked the timer. Internal's fine. It's not—" Ian tried to argue.
"You know what? Save it." He shoved the ruined burger toward Ian. "If you're so confident, go explain it to the customer yourself."
That gave Ian pause. No one ever talked to the customers directly — especially not kitchen crew. He hesitated.
"Now!" Kuwabara barked.
Murmurs from the front counter. Some curious glances from other crew.
Ian stepped out from the back, wiping his hands with a towel that smelled like fried oil and dish soap.
He didn't want to do this.
He really didn't want to.
He turned the corner—
—and froze.
At the table near the window sat a man in a fine suit, one leg crossed over the other, drink in hand like it was a glass of bourbon and not cheap cola. His hair was slicked back, sunglasses resting on the table beside him. Leaning beside him were two girls — dressed like background dancers in a boy band video, fake laughs and high-pitched squeals.
Ian's blood ran cold.
He recognized the smirk before the eyes.
Daigo.
High school.
The smell of chalk dust. Lockers. Slammed books. Stolen notebooks.
That smug, cruel face haunting every hallway. The boy who made his life a prison of shame and humiliation — now a man in a designer coat, still eating off others' dignity.
"Well, well, well..." Daigo said with a slow clap as he spotted Ian approaching.
"Ain't this a beautiful surprise." Daigo added with a smirk.
Ian stopped a few feet away. Blank face. But his heart beat like a trapped animal.
"Didn't recognize your name on the tag, little Ian," Daigo sneered, taking a sip from his cup. "Still alive, huh?"
The girls giggled. One leaned in and whispered something.
"You forgot how to speak, man? Or just too busy flippin' dead cows back there?"
Daigo lifted the top bun of the burger. "This shit's raw, by the way. I could still hear it mooing."
Ian looked at the plate. The meat was fine. Perfect even. He could tell by the sear, the texture. But it didn't matter.
Daigo wasn't here for food.
"Nothing to say?" Daigo grinned wider.
"Same as high school, huh? Always quiet, always broody. No wonder you got dumped."
Something inside Ian twitched.
Not anger.
Not hate.
Something colder.
He took a long breath. Then turned around without saying a word.
"Where you goin', loser? "No apology? No comp meal? Where's the Everhart hospitality, huh?" Daigo called out.
The laughter followed Ian like shadows.
Back in the Kitchen
The second the door swung shut behind him, Manager Kuwabara was waiting.
"You didn't speak to them."
"I did."
"You walked away."
Ian dropped the spatula. "That's all that asshole wanted."
Kuwabara's face darkened.
"We don't choose who walks through that door. You wanna work here? You swallow your pride and smile like a good little—"
"You know what?" Ian's voice cracked, quiet and sharp like ice under pressure. "No."
Kuwabara blinked. "What?"
"I said no." Ian wiped his hands slowly.
"You want someone to kiss their ass? Find another pair of lips." Ian fired back at his boss.
"Are you seriously talking back right now—?"
"Every damn day I burn my hands, I breathe in grease, I push through shifts while you sit in your office watching the clock," Ian said, voice rising now. "And the one time I'm asked to step out front, it's to entertain some prick who used to make me eat dirt during lunch break." Ian didn't hold back.
A pause.
Dead silence.
The other crew members turned from the fryers. One dropped a tray of nuggets. No one moved.
Kuwabara's lips moved, but no sound came out at first.
Then....
"Get back to the grill," he said stiffly. "We're not done talking."
Ian didn't respond.
He picked up the spatula again. Hands steady. Shoulders tense.
"Fine," Ian muttered. "I'll cook. Because unlike some people, I don't need to bark to prove I matter."
He returned to his station. The oil sizzled. The meat cooked.
And his soul quietly simmered.