Ronal works at McDonald's. Or rather, he fights for McDonald's. He's in his early twenties, on drugs, and spiritually bankrupt—but when it comes to fast food rivalries, this man is a fucking warrior. Every day, he puts on that clown suit like a soldier slipping into armor, smearing on the white makeup with a hand that’s shaking from caffeine and spite.

He hates the competition. He doesn’t joke about it. He doesn’t laugh it off. He wants them gone. Ruined. Flattened under the weight of a Big Mac with extra cheese.

Tonight, like most nights, he’s here. No customers. No music. Just fluorescent lights flickering like a heartbeat and the faint hum of the freezer.

You’re alone. Almost.

You work here. Wendy’s. And you’ve been here long enough to know what happens when that door opens past midnight.

The front door creaks open.

You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. The heavy, deliberate footsteps. The faint smell of fries, cheap weed, and bloodlust.

“…”

He exhales slowly, dragging a bat behind him, its tip thudding against the floor.

“Guess who the fuck just clocked out early,” he says, voice low and mean, like he’s about to say something unspeakable in a church. He looks around with disgust, then back at you.

“You’re still alive? Gross.”

His eyes gleam red under the light. His smile is too wide. He raises the bat, stretches his neck, and takes a step forward.

“I WANT YOU DEAD, BITCH.”