Chapter Text
"You're kidding me, right?"
Shane's manager folded his hands neatly on top of a stack of bills. "Close the door." Shane huffed as he spun around, shutting the door to his office and canceling out the noise from the dinner rush happening outside. "Sit."
Shane pulled out the very worn out leather seat in front of his desk and sat down, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes roamed around his manager's office has he waited for a response. The space was small and suffocating, tucked behind the kitchen where the scent of butter and wine couldn't quite mask the tension. Framed awards lined the walls, an overcrowded cork board of staff schedules and the polished oak desk where Shane was sat at felt more like a judge's bench than a place for conversation. "Look," Shane spoke, cutting through the silence between them. "If this is about table twelve, I already apologized-"
"It's not about table twelve."
He sank into the chair across from the desk, his spine stiff and jaw tight. “Then what is it?”
His manager shook his head as he reached for the keyboard of his laptop, punching in keys quickly as if he were looking up something. "You've missed," He paused, reaching for his glasses as he was squinting before. "Nine shifts."
Shane scoffed, "Missed sounds like I wasn't here at all. I was just a little late to those nights."
"And does that make it any better?" The manager said, furrowing his thick brows that had specks of white throughout them.
"I told you I had midterms. And they rescheduled my presentation-"
"But that still doesn't excuse your tardiness," he said. "Listen, kid. You've been here three years. You're one of my top employees and I know you worked so hard to be one. But this is a high-end establishment, and you know the reputation we hold here. We can't afford these kind of inconsistencies. We need refinement, and you're simply not where we need you to be."
Shane stared blankly at a picture frame that sat on his manager's desk - well, most likely ex-manager now - as he spoke. It was a photo of him and his family on what appeared to be a cruise ship, all wearing matching shirts that said "Bahamas Trip 2012" on them. Must be so nice to not worry about money, Shane thought, fuming at this man's lack of compassion.
"Shane?"
He shook his head, snapping himself back to reality. He blinked a few times, clearing his throat in the process. "Sir, please. This is my last semester. I only have a few months left. Then, I'll be back here and not miss a single day," Shane pleaded, a warm sensation slowly creeping onto his face. "Please, I can't," his voice cracked. "I can't lose this job..."
His manager sat back into his squeaky office chair, crossing his arms. It was just as worn out as the one Shane sat in. "I can't wait, Shane."
Shane would've preferred getting shot in the foot than having to hear his response.
Three years. Three years bussing tables, memorizing wine lists he couldn't afford to taste, staying late to polish glasses until his fingers pruned. Three years believing he was climbing toward something better. He inhaled sharply through his nose. Keep it together, he thought. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
"So that's it?" Shane asked, voice steadier than what he felt on the inside. His manager nodded, humming in response. Shane nodded once, twice, like if he accepted it fast enough it wouldn't sting as badly. He untied his apron slowly, deliberately, folding it with care before placing it on the counter. "Okay then."
Before Shane could walk out the door, his manager spoke once more, "I will wire you your last paycheck. It should help you for a bit while you find another job that's more flexible."
God. Un-fucking-believable. Shane almost spat in his face. He wished he could leap over his desk and bash him in the head without suffering any consequences. Besides, he knew some of his co-workers also despised that greasy old man, so Shane would be doing them a grand favor. Alas, this was the real world, and Shane had to be the better man, unfortunately.
Shane turned on his heel and walked out of his office. Once he retrieved the remaining items from his locker in the back - which consisted of his backpack, jacket, a pair of gloves, his green beanie, and his overcrowded lanyard full of different keys and trinkets - he made his way through the buzzing dining room towards the front. The clink of forks against porcelain, the murmur of French phrases floating from the kitchen, the scent of butter and garlic; it all felt distant already. He could feel the eyes of his co-workers glued on him as he did his walk of shame. Some of them were ones that Shane grew quite fond of within these past three years. However, no one stopped him. No one said goodbye. No one cared.
Pushing through the heavy glass doors, Shane's skin was met with the bite of Ottawa's chilly night breeze. The cold was unforgiving, hitting him instantly as it sank through his clothes all the way into his bones. He let out an excruciatingly deep sigh, and his breath turning into in a pale cloud of steam that vanished just as quickly as his job had.
"Fuck," Shane muttered under his breath, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
His manager used to care, or at least pretended to. There was a time when arriving late was met with understanding looks or sympathetic pats on the shoulder. Many wouldn't be as forgiving as him, but it was only because Shane had it all meticulously calculated.
He worked late nights without being asked. Took double shifts. Covered for people who never returned the favor. Memorized the wine list down to vineyard regions and tasting notes no one else bothered to learn. He made himself available, predictable, and easy.
He even laughed at the cringey jokes his manager made, agreed with everything he said when he wanted to argue, and bit his tongue until he could taste copper in his mouth. He had everything under control. Practically had his manager eating out of his hands for how he always sought Shane out for anything he needed. If he could continue to manage every variable, he would be able to secure this position for more years to come.
Shane stared down the empty stretch of sidewalk, his jaw clenched and pulse ticking hot beneath skin that was going numb. He had outperformed everyone. He had done everything right. "You are now one of my elite employees," his manager had said to him in confidence.
And it still hadn't been enough.
The anger Shane had brewing inside him was getting out of control. He could feel his vision tunneling, the edges darkening, and a high pitch ringing was flooding his ears, drowning out the chaotic rush hour traffic. He stopped in his tracks to take a beat. He had two choices: calm down or storm back into the restaurant and unleash levels of hell never seen before to the staff, his prick of a boss, and to all the customers there that had nothing to do with any of it.
Thankfully, his feet made better decisions that he did. They carried him down the cracked uneven sidewalk toward the back alley that wrapped around to the employee parking lot. To help him settle his rage, Shane found a few rocks along the way and began to kick them one by one.
He decided to make it more entertaining by picturing them as if they were the skull of his former manager, kicking them with all his might.
The first one skidded forward with a sharp scrape. The second he punted harder, imagining his former manager's smug, patronizing expression snapping sideways on impact as the rock bounced into the gutter. The third he absolutely launched into the sky like a rocket, sending it into the darkness vanishing before his own eyes.
Shane had to pause for a moment, admiring how all those soccer lessons he took as a kid kind of paid off. Maybe he should look to getting back into it.
The alley opened into the parking lot, the street lamps buzzing overhead and bathing everything in a dull amber glow. Shane dropped his backpack beside the pole where his bike was chained and crouched down, fishing through it until his fingers brushed against the small key for his bike lock. Once retrieved, he unlocked it and unwounded the chain, looping it through itself and neatly stored it into his bag.
"Hey!"
Shane froze, both his hands gripping onto the handlebars while he had one leg slightly in the air trying to pass it over to the other side of his bike
If he had learned anything from all the horror movies his roommate made him watch this past Halloween, it was to never respond or to look back. Just get on the bike and leave.
He turned anyway.
Under the street lamps stood a tall man beside a sleek yellow Porsche. The man's navy blue suit was clean and precise, as if it had been tailored just for him. The stranger watched him, arms crossed.
The man stepped forward, his dress shoes clicking against the asphalt. As he drew closer, the finer details became visible: glossy dirty blonde curls neatly held in place by hair gel, a singular diamond stud earring on his right ear, and icy blue eyes that felt as if they were cutting straight into Shane's skin.
"You see that car, yes?" the man asked, voice smooth but smothered with a thick Russian accent.
Shane tilted a little to the left, one hand still on his bike. "What about it?"
"Is mine."
"…Okay?"
"And this," the man continued, pointing toward the front bumper, "is because of you."
Shane frowned. "Excuse you?"
"Your rock. You kicked this rock and it hit my car."
"I didn't hit your car," Shane said immediately.
The man lifted one brow. "Ah. So it is raining rocks tonight, yes? Falling from sky?"
Shane stared at him. "That's not what I-"
"You were kicking like you are trying out for professional soccer league," the man went on dryly. "Rock goes flying in the sky. My car is here. Scratch appears. That is all the proof I need."
"That's hardly proof," Shane spat back. "You didn't even see me hit it."
"I did not need to see," the man replied coolly. "You are only other person in this parking lot. Unless," he glanced around dramatically, "we have invisible rock throwing criminal hiding behind dumpster."
Shane let out a exasperating breath. "Yeah, I was kicking rocks down the sidewalk. That doesn't mean I kicked it directly at your car."
The man stepped closer, "Come."
Every instinct told Shane not to move. Get on the bike. Leave. This wasn't his problem. This guy had no proof, no witnesses, nothing but assumptions wrapped in a designer suit.
But something in the man's stare sent shivers down his spine. It felt ridiculous, but it was as if an invisible string had been tied around his ribs and given a small tug.
Against his better judgment, Shane followed.
They stopped at the front of the Porsche. The man pointed precisely at the bumper. "There."
Shane crouched, squinting at the glossy surface. The paint reflected the streetlamp and a distorted version of his own irritated face. Was it the lighting or was his vision worse than he thought? When had he last had it checked? He leaned in closer, feeling ridiculous. He simply couldn't find whatever it was that the man was getting all worked up about.
Then, there it was. Well, maybe.
A thin line. Faint. So shallow it practically blended into the shine.
He stood, straightening himself. "That's nothing."
"It was not there before," the man said flatly.
"And you know that how? You do daily inspections?"
The man's pale eyes sharpened slightly. "You think I do not notice damage on my own car?"
"I think you don't know shit."
"You are only person here," the man repeated himself. "You were kicking rocks like angry child. One flies. Car is scratched. Is simple."
"That's not how evidence works."
The man's mouth curved just slightly. "You want evidence? We can call police. They can look at cameras. We can make report. Insurance becomes involved." A pause. "Very long night for you."
Shane's swallowed hard, "I just got fired. I don't need this."
"Ah. So sad," the man replied, no traces of sincerity on his tone. "But still, my car is scratched."
"It's barely a scratch."
"Luxury paint," he said smoothly. "Very expensive."
"And what, you expect me to just hand you the money?"
"Yes."
Shane scoffed, "Excuse me?"
"At least three thousand."
Shane let out a strained, incredulous laugh, "Three thousand dollars? For that?" He pointed again at the near invisible mark. "That's not a scratch. That's a joke."
"I can take check, if that is easier for you."
"I don't know how I'm going to afford rent next week."
The man's gaze dragged over his wrinkled shirt, loosened tie, tension radiating off him. "No," he said after a pause. "You probably cannot."
"Then we're done."
The tires screeched slightly as he pushed off hard on his bike, pedals spinning fast beneath his feet.
"Hey!"
Cold air tore at his face, eyes watering as he sped down the street. His thighs ached almost immediately, lungs dragging in excruciating, burning breaths. He wasn't built for speed but adrenaline didn't care about that. It felt electric, pushing him forward faster than he'd ever done before.
Fucking incredible.
Fired. Accused. Shaken down over a measly pebble that might not have even touched that hideous car of his. Shane wished he would've thrown a rock at it. Perhaps a brick instead.
By the time the glowing sign of the drugstore near his apartment came into view, his legs felt like they were packed with wet cement. He checked to see if the coast was clear before braking hard and hopping off clumsily. He bent over on the sidewalk, hands clutching his knees as he gasped for air. He wanted to collapse right here on the ground but kept his composure.
Once his heart had slowed down, he shoved the bike into the rack outside and hurried inside, the front door making a ding as he entered. The sudden change from pure darkness to blinding lights made his eyes ache.
He went straight to the freezers, opening the glass door and grabbing a random pack of beer, not caring what kind it was. After a night like the one he just had, he needed something cold and bitter enough to take the edge off.
He set it on the counter.
"That'll be ten sixty-five."
Shane nodded, still slightly out of breath, and reached behind him to unzip his backpack.
His hand met nothing.
He froze.
For a second, his brain didn't process it. His fingers hovered the space where fabric should've been. He frowned slightly, shifting his shoulders expecting the familiar pull of the strap digging into his collarbone.
And then, everything hit all at once.
The parking lot.
The moment he'd crouched beside the pole, backpack resting beside him while he wrestled with the bike chain. How he jumped on his bike and sped away like his life depended on it.
Phone. Wallet. House keys. All in his backpack.
He left it there.
"Shit."