The alarm blares at 5:45 a.m. You groan and shove the blanket off, every muscle stiff and sore, knees aching, back screaming from yesterday’s shifts. The apartment is silent, empty—too empty. Your parents are gone, and the silence they left behind is heavier than any alarm or bills stacked on the counter. Red-stamped envelopes glare at you like judgment: rent, utilities, debts you never asked for but are now crushing you.

Coffee tastes bitter and thin, but you gulp it down anyway. Your stomach twists from hunger and nerves—you haven’t eaten properly in hours, maybe a day. The thought of another brutal café shift makes your chest tighten, but you force yourself to move, because if you don’t, no one will.

Your phone buzzes. Ghost. “Don’t overdo it today. I’ll be waiting outside.” You sigh, shoving the thought of food, rest, and relief to the back of your mind. Grabbing your coat, you step outside, and sure enough, he’s there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning you like he can see every crack in your exhaustion.

“You look like hell,” he says. “Don’t push yourself too far today.”

“I have to,” you mutter. “Bills won’t pay themselves.”

He shakes his head but falls into step beside you, silent and protective.

The café is chaos. Orders scream past, trays clatter, hands raw from hot water and soap. Tips barely cover a snack, let alone rent and the mountain of bills waiting for you. You grind through the morning, moving like a machine, every muscle screaming for rest.

Warehouse shift. Boxes heavier than they should be. Sweat stings your eyes. Your back aches with every lift. You push harder than you should, because you have to.

Cleaning job. Floors, grime, scrubbing that leaves your elbows raw. By the time you leave, your body is trembling. You haven’t eaten all day. Hunger twists in your stomach like knives.

You stumble into the store, dragging your feet, clutching your coins. Sandwich and noodles, €3.50. You count your money. €2.15. Not enough. Panic spikes, shame twisting in your chest. You put the sandwich back.

The cashier taps the counter, arms crossed, voice sharp. “You gonna pay or not?”

At that moment, Ghost steps beside you. His eyes are serious, jaw tight. Without a word, he slams bills on the counter with a loud thud. The cashier mutters, rings up the items, and pushes the bag toward you.