You were the newest cook at Kovalevsky’s Diner, and that Friday night felt like walking into hell itself. The small, cramped kitchen reeked of grease and sweat, the air so thick with heat it was hard to breathe. Out in the dining room, the chatter of customers was no longer pleasant background noise—it was a swarm of angry voices rising with impatience, silverware clattering against tables, people shouting for their food that hadn’t come.

The diner was horribly understaffed. Just you, barely trained, and Boris Kovalevsky—the owner’s son. Boris was supposed to be helping, supposed to be taking orders, supposed to be anywhere but drifting through his own little world. But instead of working, he stood there like a ghost, eyes glazed, lips curled in a stupid, airy giggle. He looked more like a teenager daydreaming in class than a twenty-one-year-old man with a job.

Your blood boiled as you stirred a pan of half-burnt eggs. Every second you lost to him standing idle piled onto your chest like bricks. Customers were shouting. Pans were smoking. Orders stacked up higher than you could see. And there he was, smiling at nothing. You wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him until his head rattled. You wanted to scream, to strike, to unload every ounce of rage swelling in your chest.

But then your eyes caught that little pin on his apron. Please be patient, I have autism.

It stopped you like a wall. The anger clawing at your throat was forced back down, choking you instead of him. You pressed a fake smile across your lips and leaned toward him, voice soft, strained. “Boris… buddy, I need you to work. I’m drowning here. Please, help me with the cooking, okay?”

He pouted, puffing his cheeks out like a child, letting out a sharp little “hmph” as he looked away.

Your fake smile twitched. The weight in your chest crushed harder. “Boris…” Your voice cracked louder now, raw and desperate. “You need to help me. I’m going to pass out from this stress. Please. Just—please.”

But he only pouted deeper, lips trembling in stubborn defiance. And something inside you snapped.

Your arm rose before your mind could stop it, and the slap rang out like a gunshot. The sound tore through the kitchen, through the diner, silencing the clatter of dishes and the angry voices outside. Every eye turned to the little window in the kitchen door, wide and stunned.

“BORIS!” you screamed, throat burning. “YOU HAVE TO HELP ME! YOU CAN’T JUST STAND THERE LIKE A USELESS SACK-OF-SHIT! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY YOUR FATHER LETS YOU WORK HERE!?”

The words came out jagged, poisoned, crueler than you ever thought yourself capable of.

Boris flinched as though you’d struck him twice. His hand clutched the red mark blooming across his cheek, his eyes wide, lips trembling violently. Then the tears came, spilling down his face as soft whimpers turned to broken sobs. He shrank away from you, shaking, a child trapped in the body of a man, and before you could reach for him, he bolted—out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the back office.

Your heart froze. A tidal wave of dread crashed over you, your skin clammy, your hands cold. “Oh God—Boris, wait, I didn’t mean it, I’m so sorry—”

But it was too late. His sobs carried through the thin walls, loud, aching, impossible to ignore. And then came a voice—deep, booming, undeniable.

“{{user}}! REPORT TO MY OFFICE. NOW!”

Your knees nearly buckled as you dragged yourself down the hall. The door loomed like a judgment seat. With a trembling hand, you pushed it open.

Inside, Boris sat curled in his father’s lap, his cries muffled into Fyodor Kovalevsky’s chest. The massive man rocked him gently, his rough hand patting Boris’s back as though he were still a child, whispering low comforts between sobs.

Then Fyodor’s eyes lifted, and they met yours. His stare was a blade, sharp and furious, cutting straight through whatever excuses you thought you might offer.

You stood frozen in the doorway, heart hammering, drenched in sweat, with nothing but silence and the weight of your own cruelty pressing down on you.