In the grand ledger of the world, most lives flicker and fade like oil lamps in a storm—unnoticed, unremembered. Gabriel was one of those lives.
At twenty-seven, he bore no titles, wielded no wealth, and cast no shadow across history. By day, he worked in a warehouse, the kind where sweat clings to your skin like regret. His job was simple: lift, carry, repeat. Each motion a verse in a poem no one would ever read.
But Gabriel had known worse.
Before the boxes and forklifts, he had worked in the sewers. Not metaphorically. He had scraped muck from beneath the city's skin, baptized in the bile of civilization. That stench had become part of him—an old curse that clung to his bones even after countless showers.
Once, he might've lied about it. Now? He barely cared. Dignity was a currency he no longer spent on strangers.
Time showed him the truth of mortal existence: that the vast majority lived not with dignity, but with debt; not with freedom, but with fatigue. From paycheck to paycheck, the days slipped by like falling leaves.
On some evenings, he went out with his friends. He had few friends. But those he had were like jade—rare and solid. Still, with those few, he allowed himself the indulgence of fantasy. What might we do, they'd wonder, if fortune favored us? If somehow they got rich, or if the world came to an end?
They never found a question that survived the second drink.
It all began after a seemingly normal day—bone-tired, his shirt clinging with the sweat of honest labor, parched from the summer heat—when Gabriel received a simple message on his phone. It was a simple photo of two beers cheering.
Understanding the meaning behind the photo, Gabriel took a shower, dressed simply, and made his way to the local bar, a humble establishment where the air carried the scent of stale alcohol and old regrets.
There were few patrons at this hour. The tavern seemed half-asleep, waiting for laughter or sorrow to awaken it.
In the far corner, Gabriel spotted a young man sitting alone. He approached, phone in hand, and with the seriousness of a policeman, asked, "Excuse me, sir. Have you seen this man?"
The other glanced at the screen. "Oh, that handsome face? I've seen him somewhere. Don't ask me where—film, maybe?"
Gabriel blinked, then frowned, then checked his phone. "Wrong picture." He swiped, then presented a new image—a monkey, solemn-faced and mid-bite. "This is him. We were meant to meet here."
The stranger narrowed his eyes at the screen, lips twitching.
"Ah yes, I've seen that face. Mirror, mostly. Think he's stalking me. Very committed."
Gabriel nodded gravely. "He has a fondness for watching young men in the shower."
"Well, that explains it," the stranger declared. "Next time I see him, I'll drag him out of that mirror and give him the thrashing he deserves."
At that, the facade broke. The man laughed, then, unable to hold the absurdity in any longer Gabriel chuckled as well.
"You broke first," he said. "Drinks are on you."
John, for that was the other young man's name, sighed.. It was an old game between them. They met, they spun nonsense, and the first to laugh paid the price. A poor man's duel, fought not with blades, but with words and straight faces.
They took their seats. John called for two beers.
"So," he said, "How's your work?"
Gabriel took a long draught of his beer. "Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. A tale without a plot."
John raised a brow. "And the woman? Still gnawing at your heels like a starving dog?"
"No more like a mosquito with sharp teeth," Gabriel said, sipping from the cold mug. "But I try to ignore her. Which only enrages her more."
"Maybe her husband can't satisfy her," John said, as casually as one might comment on the weather. "If that's the case, you ought to help the poor thing. Do your duty to womankind."
Gabriel's reply was swift and succinct: "Fuck off."
John shrugged. "What? It's a win-win. And don't forget—she only ever seems to pick on you."
Gabriel took another drink, the foam clinging to his lip. He said nothing.
John leaned back, eyes narrowed now. "You have to admit… that's strange. No?"
"Aye, I suppose it is," Gabriel said, nursing his drink. "But it's no great mystery. I don't take on the extra shifts. I meet my quota, not a box more. And since I'm the only one in her lot who doesn't break his back for the foreman's scraps, she misses out on the monthly bonus for overproduction."
John gave a short bark of laughter. "So that's it. She's sour because you won't wear the chains as gladly as the rest. Can't say I blame her. Were I her, I'd be cursing your lazy arse too."
Gabriel's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "Lazy? Maybe. Or maybe I've simply learned not to dance when the tune is poison. I was hired to move a set number of crates, not to bleed myself dry so someone else can line their pockets."
John whistled low. "Spoken like a man with no dreams of advancement."
"I've dreams," Gabriel muttered. "Just not the kind they sell in warehouses."