The phone screamed again. That same rattling buzz, like an insect trapped in glass, drilling into his head.
Azrael sat up too quickly, ribs aching, temples throbbing. He wanted to throw the damn thing against the wall, watch it break in sparks. But he didn't. He just sat there, staring at it, disgust burning in his mouth.
[WORK SHIFT – 9:00 AM]
Work. Always that word. He almost laughed. Once he had armies kneeling before him, shadows swallowing cities whole, and now the gods demanded… this. Clocking in on time.
Dragging himself out of bed felt harder than a war march. His legs were stiff. His chest immediately reminded him he was in Kai's pitiful body as it wheezed like an old bellows. Hunger chewed at him before he even reached the closet.
The uniform was hanging there, limp, ugly. Bright colors, stitched logo. He shoved his arms through the sleeves and immediately hated it. Missed a button, cursed, fixed it again. He stared into the cracked mirror and saw nothing of himself in it. Just Kai. Dead-eyed, pale, small.
"…Pathetic," he muttered to no one.
The store smelled like… plastic and sweat. Everything was too bright, shining like mockery. Narrow aisles stacked with food that looked like it was made for show, not to eat. Bags with cartoon smiles. Bottles of sugar water glowing fake colors.
He stood behind the counter. The counter that squeaked. The door chimed every time someone entered, a bell so cheerful it almost broke him.
And then, of course, the milk slipped.
It slipped fast out of his hand and burst on the floor. White spreading everywhere.
And of course there had to be witnesses. A mother. Her child. Both staring.
The woman sighed, like he had ruined her entire day. The child pointed, laughed. "Mom, he dropped it!"
Azrael froze. Shadows twitched under his skin. He could still—no. No. Not here. Not ever.
He bent down instead, grabbed paper towels. His knees cracked loudly. He crouched there awkwardly while the milk soaked into his cuffs. The kid laughed harder.
Every second of it burned. This wasn't scraping pride. This wasn't even dignity. This was just… humiliation.
By mid-morning, he was already drowning.
Coin exchange. Simple enough, right? Yet he found himself staring too long at the pieces, forgetting which one went where.
The man waiting frowned. "Uh… the change?"
Azrael blinked. The coin slipped, bounced onto the floor.
He bent again. His knee popped loud.
The whispers ran like knives across his back. "The new guy's slow." "Looks about to collapse already." "Hire anyone these days."
Every word dug in, part insult, part truth. The Demon King couldn't even manage coin counters. He gripped the customer's bag too tightly before handing it back—forcing his voice flat.
"…Have a good day."
The man didn't even look twice.
By noon, he was drenched in sweat, collar sticking to his neck. His temples throbbed every time the register screeched. The bell at the door made him tense with actual rage.
And then Lina walked in.
She did not belong there.
She stepped lightly, plain sweater, staff slung over her back as casually as if it were nothing. She scanned the aisles like normal people did but stopped when her eyes found him at the counter.
She smiled.
Azrael's gut twisted.
"Oh—you're that guy from the Guild, right? Kai?" she said, voice bright, warm. Like the world wasn't heavy at all.
"…Kai." The word left his lips like something he wanted to spit out.
She set her basket down: bread, fruit, bottled water. Nothing dramatic, just… ordinary. He scanned them. Too slowly. His hands fumbled over the buttons. The register beeped wrong.
She tilted her head. "You don't really do this, do you?"
Her tone wasn't cruel, just teasing. Light. But it hit him like a blade anyway.
Azrael glared, eyes sharp. The kind of glare that once silenced roomfuls. But she only gave a small laugh, covering it behind her wrist. Not even scared.
The water bottle betrayed him. Slid right out of his hand, rolled across the counter.
He snatched at it, clumsy, grip too tight when he caught it. Cap cracked faintly.
Lina tried not to laugh but failed, a small snort escaping.
"It doesn't suit you," she said.
His face tightened. "…What doesn't?"
"This." She waved at the whole scene — his uniform, the counter, all of it. "You look like you should be anywhere else but here."
For a flash, his chest tightened. Did she see? Did she guess?
But she smiled softer, voice lower. "That's a good thing. It means you're… different."
Different.
He didn't respond. He didn't trust his own voice.
Then she noticed his hand. That small cut across his knuckles, still not fully gone.
"Hey," she said, reaches into her bag. Pulled out a folded strip of cloth. She laid it on the counter. "Here. For that."
Azrael stared at it. "I don't need scraps." The words came sharp, harsh.
But she didn't pull it back. "It's just cloth. Take it."
Her eyes didn't waver. Gentle. Certain.
He hated the silence between them more than the laughter of the customers before. Slowly, he took the cloth. His fingers brushed hers. Her warmth stayed even when she pulled away, ghosting on his hand.
"…Thank you," he muttered, the words heavy, bitter, unnatural.
Her grin spread. "See? Not bad, huh?"
And then she left, humming softly as if nothing had just happened.
He stood there, staring at the cloth.
Night. Uniform on the chair, reeking of fryer oil, sweat. The cloth folded on the desk, waiting.
He sat, staring at it for too long. Touched it lightly once, like it might bite.
He didn't need it. His wounds were gone. But he couldn't forget her face when she offered it. That simple small kindness lingered longer than mockery, longer than sweat, longer than failure.
He hated it.
And he couldn't stop thinking about it.
To be continued.....