Horrible workplace

After traversing the desolate cityscape, Sam found himself standing before a towering building, an anomaly amidst the ruins. The structure, about two meters in height, stood adorned with neon lights that sparkled, proudly displaying the word.

'Club.'

Guarding the entrance were two imposing figures, bouncers with bodies twice the size of Sam's frail frame. Their expressions remained stoic as they stood sentry, presumably screening entrants based on the club's stringent criteria.

"Hey, Rony, look. It's the disgrace of a human, Sam,'' one bouncer jeered to his companion.

The other, named Tony, chuckled in response. "Oh, yeah. I thought he would have committed suicide by now because of the tragic thing that happened to his family. What use is he now?"

They both erupted into laughter, an insensitive mockery of Sam's plight.

Silently enduring their taunts, Sam walked past the bouncers and entered the club. He chose wisdom over confrontation, knowing that engaging in a fight could lead to dire consequences without access to quality medical care.

Yet, amidst his silence, a vehement thought resonated in Sam's mind: 'I hope you motherfuckers die and burn in hell.'

As Sam stepped into the club, the cacophony of loud music assaulted his ears, neon lights of various hues rotating and flashing everywhere. The club, shrouded in darkness, relied on these neon lights for illumination, revealing a scene of people dancing in a frenzy of excitement and pleasure.

The air was thick with the smell of intoxicating liquor and cigarettes. In the lounge area, people drank and smoked away their lives. Sam couldn't help but notice men with women on their laps, hands shamelessly exploring intimate areas. The sight, though familiar, always left him wondering.

'Is this how life was meant to be? Everything is no longer as it should be. Rules have disappeared, and people act without restraint. I wish I could teach you all a lesson. Even if the champions are to blame for killing my family, humans also played a part in their demise. They foolishly hunted the champions, only to later depend on them for help. Fools!,' Sam mused, navigating the crowd toward the back of the building, where the staff room awaited him.

After navigating through the pulsating crowd, Sam finally reached the staff room and pushed open the double doors. The abrupt shift from the blaring music to a more subdued environment greeted him as he entered. The room housed a collection of lockers, and people were in various stages of changing into their staff uniforms.

As the double doors sealed shut behind him, the cacophony of the club's music was replaced by the rhythmic thumping beats within the staff room. Sam casually moved through the bustling space until he reached a locker positioned at the far end of the rows. Skillfully, he input a code only he knew, or perhaps trusted in his paranoia, and the locker clicked open.

Taking out his staff uniform, Sam examined it – a doll-like blue shirt with minimal design, featuring a small pocket at the left chest angle. The back bore the straightforward label:

"Staff member."

'Sigh! What a stupid-ass looking clothing,' Sam thought, his disdain evident. Each time he donned this uniform, it felt like he was stripped of his humanity, reduced to a mere entity treated like trash. The uniform became a symbol of the degrading treatment he endured within the confines of the club.

Sam shed the clothes that clung to his frail body, revealing the prominence of his ribcage. His meager earnings from the club job barely sustained him, just enough to stave off hunger. The scraps Sam managed to consume were far from sufficient for a typical household meal, let alone a nourishing breakfast.

In the upper-tier cities, life might be costlier, but stable jobs offered a chance for a better existence – a dream cherished by many in the lower tier. Yet, Sam remained indifferent. Revenge consumed his thoughts, overshadowing any desire for a more comfortable life.

However, Sam faced a stark reality – he was not strong enough to challenge the champions, let alone their mightier counterparts. A mere slap from one of them could snuff out his life.

Slipping into the doll-like blue shirt, Sam prepared to move when a young man in his twenties halted in front of him, wearing a peculiar smile as he appraised Sam. He met Sam's eyes and couldn't help but remark, "I know I shouldn't speak to my elders that way, but you look like shit."

"I don't have time for jokes, Peter. I have work to do," Sam replied, a hint of laziness in his tone.

Peter chuckled, finding amusement in Sam's response. "You mean the job you consider a nightmare and always call it the horrible workplace?"

"Yeah, that place," Sam affirmed, moving past Peter.

Considered a friend by some, Peter was a constant source of irritation for Sam. Despite Sam's attempts to avoid him, Peter always managed to find his way to him. Both working as waiters in the club, they had grown familiar with each other over time. Sam, however, preferred to remain aloof, avoiding details about anyone's life. Peter, having lost his family in the war, managed to find solace in seemingly dire situations – a perspective that often irked Sam. Yet, he refrained from venting his frustration on Peter, recognizing the shared fate of losing loved ones.

Peter, an average-looking individual much like Sam, sported black short hair and exceptionally dark eyes. While he, too, bore bags under his eyes, they were less pronounced than Sam's. With a smaller and slightly shorter frame, Peter stood in contrast to Sam's towering 6'3" height.

As Sam moved on, Peter chased after him, intercepting his path once again.

"What the hell?" Sam exclaimed.

"Wait a sec, hear me out," Peter urged. "You know you're late, right? I could just tell the boss you just arrived a while ago, and calm him down."

Sam remained silent, fixing Peter with an unyielding stare. Despite the implicit expectation of gratitude, Sam never pleaded, even in moments of trouble.

"Okay... I guess we should go work for cash then," Peter suggested.

Sam walked past Peter, offering no response. He navigated through the door leading back into the crowded club.

"Oh, wait for me," Peter called out, chasing after Sam.

******