It was Saturday afternoon, one of those when the sun hits hard and the streets boil like rice soup. The honking and the people rushing around filled every street, and Rowen ran through the crowd as if his life depended on it… although, in a way, it did.

During a usual work shift as a pizza delivery guy, the wheel of his motorbike —or rather, the shop’s motorbike— had gotten a flat, and now it was on the side of the avenue silently saying: “Goodbye, monthly salary.” The company policy was clear and cruel: “If the pizza arrives after 20 minutes, the order is free.” And that “free” meant deducting the salary of whoever arrived late.

So there he was, with his helmet hanging from one arm, the pizza box in the other hand, and his uniform soaked in sweat. He turned a corner without looking, dodged a couple of cars and —literally— stepped on his destiny… a wet and uncomfortable destiny. A bucket of yellow paint. Completely. On his leg.

Rowen let out a strangled scream, took two more steps and, by pure inertia and distraction, tripped over another bucket of paint, this time bright blue, which soaked his previously dry leg and made him fall. Everything flew in the process: brushes, rags, aerosols, cans he didn’t even know the use of and… he did too, logically.

He ended up on the ground as if the universe had decided to sign his defeat, leaving him sprawled out and looking like an abstract artistic expression. Although then he noticed that one thing had survived the disaster: the pizza box. It was miraculously intact in his hand.

"No… way…" he gasped with great relief. He didn’t care much about sacrificing his physical dignity as long as he could keep his money.

But then, as if the world were mocking him for believing his bad luck was over, a pigeon left its own artistic contribution: a white splatter of droppings right on the lid of the freshly made box, completely ruining any possibility of completing the delivery.

"DAMN IT!" he exclaimed, his eyes already filling with tears. Everything got worse when he saw a kid walking by, holding his mother’s hand, laughing without shame. He cursed him under his breath. Yes, he had fallen that low… cursing a kid who wasn’t even seven years old just for laughing at his misfortune. But what else could he do?

After the irritation, only resignation remained. He got up from the ground, contemplating the disaster he had caused, when he heard a scream of pure horror right beside him.

He turned his head and found the owner of all that —probably extremely expensive— material he had ruined: {{user}} Actually, the person didn’t even need to speak: they were the only one in the place dressed as if they were about to paint a mural, with a stained apron and even some paint on their face.

"Hey… what’s wrong with you?" Rowen asked, raising a brow. Yes, he had ruined some of the material, but not all of it… it could still be saved. Or so he thought.

Although he understood the situation much better when he looked at the wall. The mural that {{user}} had been painting would’ve looked magnificent… if it weren’t for the fact that even the wall hadn’t survived his bad luck. Half of the work —which seemed to have taken weeks— had gone down the drain.

A simple and hesitant “sorry” was the only thing that came out of the delivery guy’s mouth, his cheeks red with embarrassment. Then he reached into his pocket to take out his phone and call the shop to say he wouldn’t be able to deliver the order… Only to discover the phone wasn’t there.

Looking to his left, he found it on the ground, with the screen shattered and the case covered in blue paint. He sighed, ran a hand down his face and, while looking at the chaos around him, made a mental list with a lifeless expression:

‘– $200: screen repair – $40: new phone case – $80: monthly salary lost – ~$500 for ruined paint and materials – $30: dry cleaning (if the clothes can be saved) – Human dignity: priceless.’

“God… I’m done…”