Hi everyone! I hope you're all doing great. I know it took me forever to upload this new chapter, and I'm so sorry for disappearing.
To be honest, my back hurts terribly from lifting so many bags of cement, and my body just wasn't ready to sit down and write. That's why the delay; I hope you understand.
Thank you so much for your patience as always. Here is the chapter, and I hope you enjoy it!
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"Watch out for thieves, kid... And hurry up, or you'll be late for your first day of work!"
The green-haired youth closed the gym door with a sharp thud, instantly silencing the old man's voice, which had been trying to force a smile and a paternal atmosphere.
There was no longer any trace of his previous, stealthy stiffness. With the mission now underway, Enkidu's gaze was completely alert, though hidden behind his disguise. His light green hair was a striking feature—a brilliant cascade that reached down to his waist, a legendary mane that, by its very nature, could not be cut by conventional scissors or tools, forcing him to keep it concealed.
There was no longer any trace of his previous, stealthy stiffness. With the mission now underway, Enkidu's gaze was completely alert, though hidden behind his disguise. His light green hair was a striking feature—a brilliant cascade that reached down to his waist, a legendary mane that, by its very nature, could not be cut by conventional scissors or tools, forcing him to keep it concealed.
He slid one hand toward the back of his neck in an automatic gesture, while the other held a hair tie, gently rubbing it between his index finger and thumb.
With a slight twist of his wrist, he lifted the loose locks. His fingers moved deftly across the side of his head, gathering the entire mane into a high, tight ponytail. He wrapped the hair tie around it with precise, circular movements. Once finished, he gave it a short but decisive tug to secure the hold.
Finally, he adjusted two rebellious strands near his ear with a quick touch and slipped on his red cap, pulling it down slightly over his eyebrows.
"How I hate my new hair..." he muttered, his expression tensing for just a moment in a swift grimace of distaste.
After that adjustment, he resumed his walk along the sidewalk, his mane securely tucked away.
. . .
Thirty-six minutes later, Enkidu arrived in front of Uncle Leo's Pizzeria. It was a generic, ordinary building, lost in the monotony of the street.
His thick-soled sneakers came to a precise halt on the cracked pavement, not out of attentiveness, but from the sheer inertia of someone who has memorized the route while their mind wanders. The facade, made of gray brick stained by the years, seemed to sink beneath a washed-out, uninteresting blue sky.
As he crossed the threshold, the thick, suffocating outside air broke. He was hit by the intoxicating aroma of melted cheese, toasted oregano, and fermented yeast—a blend so rich that for a moment his stomach, accustomed to the forced fasting of insomnia, let out a low rumble.
He stood momentarily frozen, not out of shyness, but from the innate laziness of starting an interaction. His gaze swept the room. The dining area was small, featuring worn formica tables and advertising posters peeling off the walls. The monotonous hum of an old refrigerator filled the silence.
He spotted his boss. The man, a mass of flesh wrapped in a stained plaid shirt, was at one of the back tables, leaning over the wood, scribbling figures with a ballpoint pen and tapping tiny keys on a dirty calculator.
Enkidu forced himself to walk. It wasn't an agile movement; it was an almost imperceptible shuffle of his feet, as if every step required a monumental effort.
Upon reaching the table, he assembled his mask. The corners of his mouth pulled upward, and his eyes, still heavy from lack of sleep, opened a bit wider than natural, adopting a completely fake expression of being "alert and ready."
"Hello, good morning, sir! I'm ready for work!" Enkidu spoke in a ridiculously cheerful, forced, almost childish tone.
He stood there waiting, his smile glued to his face.
(Enkidu's inner thoughts)
Come on, you fat glutton. Just tell me what to do. While you give me instructions, I'll think about that dog meme that says, "This is fine." Or maybe that dark, moral phrase about the hypocrisy of work.
The boss, oblivious to Enkidu's forced cheerfulness and mental mockery, didn't even look up. He remained hunched over the formica table, the tip of his pen scratching against the dirty paper. His face, reddish and covered in a thin layer of sweat, was focused entirely on the calculator.
Every thud of his thumb on the keypad was a dull, exasperating sound.
He was absorbed, writing down his employees' wages. His heavy breathing was audible over the paper.
Enkidu's smile began to falter by just a few millimeters. His jaw muscle tensed almost imperceptibly from the irritation of waiting. The "good employee" pose was becoming unbearably heavy.
(Enkidu's inner thoughts)
This could take hours. I could just stand here and watch him self-destruct. What a pathetic motivation. Honestly, life is just a dark joke told by an idiot. I need music. A good social critique track, or at least a rhythm stupid enough to drown out this silence.
Finally, the boss finished a line and withdrew the pen with a sigh. His small, watery eyes rose lazily toward Enkidu, as if he struggled to recognize him.
"Ah, Enkidu. See you decided to show up. No. You don't know how this works, kid. You're the rookie," he spoke, his dragging voice entirely devoid of enthusiasm. "You're here to deliver and to scrub. This is your first week. Don't get used to this 'training' thing."
The boss pointed the tip of his pen toward a dark area next to the kitchen entrance.
"Your apron, right there. Put it on. Then, go to the kitchen and have Tony tell you where the boxes and the bike are. And don't dawdle. You've already wasted eight minutes of your life here, and they're unpaid."
Enkidu nodded with excessive, nervous speed—a reflex of his fake shyness and his desperation to get the paperwork over with.
(Enkidu's inner thoughts)
Boxes, bike, Tony. Eight minutes? The real cost is the loss of my precious solitude and my sleep schedule. It's human tragedy on a small scale. I could write a dark poem about this apron. It's so greasy. Literally the system's shit. He turned around with a sluggishness that he only managed to disguise as clumsy haste to go fetch the apron...
. . .
5 days later...
. . .
Rrrr... Rrrr... The engine coughed, vibrating with an irregular, annoying sound before dying out. The small delivery bike, battered and with its paint faded by the sun, came to a sudden halt next to the curb.
With a tired shrug of his shoulder, Enkidu took off the ridiculous helmet. It was a loud, bright red, far too light and flimsy—the kind that could barely protect you from a drizzle, let alone a serious accident. As he removed it, his long green hair fell like a heavy curtain over his back, freeing itself from the constriction of the tie.
His face, exposed to the dim light of a broken streetlamp, now showed an expression of tense exhaustion. The lines under his eyes were more pronounced than five days ago, evidence of the routine of sleeplessness and forced labor.
From one of his pants pockets, Enkidu pulled out the familiar red cap. It was the same scandalous shade as the helmet and the shirt, an essential part of his low-profile look. He adjusted it with a single deft gesture, pushing his hair down and hiding it almost completely.
Finally, he dismounted from the small bike with an agile hop. He didn't use the kickstand; he simply pushed it gently until it leaned against a damp brick wall.
Enkidu lingered by the bike for a moment longer, enjoying the last glimpse of outside air.
"What a job..." he murmured, the complaint lazy and drawn-out, directed at no one in particular. Then, he forced himself to move. "Well, time to go."
He entered the pizzeria with a slight, but palpable, sluggishness. Every step felt like an act of physical resistance. The only thing motivating him was that once he handed over the key, he could disappear and plunge back into his precious solitude.
(Enkidu's inner thoughts)
I need to give the key to the boss. One more minute of interaction, one less minute of thinking stupid things in the dark.
As he walked toward the kitchen, the heat felt almost physical. The air vibrated with the sour smell of flour and yeast, contrasting with the metallic heat of the oven.
He saw his boss in the heart of the kitchen, his fat arms buried up to his elbows in a metal tray, kneading another sourdough batch. The movement was slow and rhythmic, and his face was covered in flecks of flour.
Enkidu approached, maintaining a safe distance and reactivating his "mask" one last time.
"Here are the keys, boss," Enkidu said, using his fake, cheerfully subservient tone. He slid the keys noisily across the metal surface. "Have a good night, sir!"
The boss didn't even look at him. His attention was entirely focused on the dough, as if it were the only entity worthy of his effort.
"Yeah, whatever. See ya, girl," he replied with a guttural grunt that barely carried over the noise of the industrial mixer buzzing faintly in the corner.
Enkidu turned around before the boss could say anything else. He didn't just walk; he practically glided out of the kitchen, eager to escape the heat and human contact...
. . .
As he walked, he stuffed himself into a gray hoodie, old and worn out. It was noticeably big on him, but the thick cotton at least restored a bit of warmth to his body. He rubbed his arms with his hands to stave off the chill.
"Right..." he muttered to himself, swallowing hard. "Very soon I'll be able to get those black sneakers. They're used, but cheap. And while I'm at it, some pants. A real new pair."
He let out a deep sigh. A small cloud of white mist puffed from his lips and quickly dissipated into the freezing air. With a swift flick of his fingers, he pulled the hood up to his forehead, hiding the conspicuous shine of his green hair and casting half his face into the shadows.
He paused for a moment and looked up. The sky was completely dark, a black canvas dotted with stars where the moon shone with an almost silvery strength. It made him offer a faint smile.
"How beautiful the night is..."
He lowered his head, caught in thought, and stood still.
He remained stationary in the middle of the sidewalk, debating internally. Crossing his arms, he rocked on his heels as he weighed his options: head to his usual alley near the bank, or accept the gym's offer and sleep under a roof?
"Screw it, let's go to the alley," he decided aloud, resuming his stride with a new burst of momentum. "It'll be the last time.
Besides... with any luck, someone might actually try to rob that bank tonight."
He adjusted his hoodie with a tug, but doubt crept back in, causing him to frown beneath his hood.
"Though... is he even around right now?" he thought, slowing the pace of his footsteps. "I haven't heard absolutely anything about Superman. Not on the gym radio, nothing... just music and boring news. Now that I think about it... why haven't I seen a single TV turned on in any of the shops? Nothing at all?"
He stopped dead in his tracks beneath the flickering light of a streetlamp. Suspicion crawled up his spine—a silent alarm warning him that something was very wrong. A hero that grand wouldn't just vanish into thin air.
"This is way too suspicious. I need to see a damn TV. I'm going to head past that electronics store..." he told himself, his jaw tight with the gravity of the matter.
He spun on his heels, ready to march off, but froze after just two steps. He looked left, then looked right. The streets looked exactly the same in the gloom.
He let out a long sigh, dropping his shoulders in annoyance.
"By the way... where even is that store? Which direction am I supposed to take?" He scratched the back of his neck over his hood, completely resigned. "No choice then... I'll have to swallow my pride and ask some random stranger..."
End of Chapter