William Hatcher, 28, slumped in his creaky chair at the East London call center, the hum of fluorescent lights drilling into his skull. The headset dug into his ears, a constant reminder of another day spent as a verbal punching bag. The clock ticked toward 6 PM, signaling the end of his shift, but the barrage of complaints never let up. "Sir, I understand your frustration," he droned, reading from a script taped to his monitor, "but our policy—"
"Policy?!" the customer snapped. "Your system's a scam! Fix it, or I'm done with you lot!"
William pinched the bridge of his nose, biting back a retort. Keep pushing, he thought, the mantra that carried him through a life of dead ends. Orphaned at 12, he'd clawed through foster homes, one memory stinging—a foster mother tossing his sketchbook of cafe designs into the trash, calling it "foolish." He'd still earned decent grades, scraping a partial scholarship to business school, dreaming of a small cafe: warm lights, coffee's aroma, a refuge from the grind. But jobs vanished, relationships fizzled, and bills drained his savings. Now, he was stuck here, fielding insults for minimum wage.
"Try restarting the device," he said, voice flat. The customer cursed and hung up. William yanked off the headset, rubbing his sore ears. Across the cubicle farm, his coworker, Jez, smirked over a chipped mug.
"Another happy customer, William?" Jez teased, leaning back. "You're too good at this. Should've opened that cafe by now."
William forced a half-smile. "Banks don't loan to dreamers, Jez." He'd applied for loans twice, each rejection a gut punch. Cafe's a pipe dream, he thought, shoving papers into his worn backpack. The vision lingered—wooden tables, chalkboard menus, customers laughing—but reality was a cold slap. Jez clapped his shoulder.
"Chin up, mate. Pub later?"
"Nah, got bills," William muttered, heading for the exit. He'd spent nights sketching cafe layouts, but a rejection email from that morning burned: We appreciate your enthusiasm, but we're unable to offer you the loan at this time. Another door slammed shut. Why's it always me?
Rain lashed London's streets, soaking his thin jacket. The city's glow blurred through the downpour, streetlights reflecting off puddles like mocking stars. William trudged toward his flat, taking a familiar shortcut through a dim alley. It was a risk, but exhaustion dulled his caution. The weight of the day—rejections, bills, Jez's jab—pressed harder than the rain. He kicked a pebble into a puddle, the splash lost in the storm. Tried my best. Always do. A memory flashed: a foster brother stealing his savings, laughing as William fought back. Keep pushing.
Footsteps echoed behind him—too close, too deliberate. His pulse spiked. He turned, catching three figures emerging from the shadows, hoods up, knives glinting under a flickering streetlamp. The leader, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, blade tilted.
"Wallet and phone. Now," he growled, eyes cold as the rain.
William froze, mind racing. Run? Fight? The alley was narrow, no escape. "Please, I don't have much," he stammered, fumbling for his wallet—barely £20 inside. He handed it over, heart pounding. The leader snatched it, tossing it to a second thug, who rifled through it and sneered.
"This it?" the second said, grabbing William's backpack. "What's in here, mate? Gold?"
"Just books," William said, voice tight. They laughed, shoving him against the wet brick wall. The third thug, a hulking figure, cracked his knuckles, blade glinting.
"Not enough," the leader snapped, pressing his knife to William's side. "You holding out on us?"
William's fists clenched, defiance flaring—the same grit that got him through foster homes and rejections. "I gave you everything," he said, shoving back. The leader's eyes narrowed.
"Big mistake," he hissed. A fist slammed into William's face, pain exploding across his cheek. He stumbled, clutching the wall, but the knife plunged into his gut, hot and sharp. He gasped, collapsing to the pavement, blood mixing with rain. The muggers vanished into the dark, their laughter fading.
William lay there, vision blurring, sirens faint in the distance. The cold seeped into his bones, the alley's grime pressing against his cheek. Tried my best... again. Why am I always punished this way? His breath slowed, each gasp weaker, the world fading to black. In his dying breath, a cold, mechanical voice pierced the silence: "Yomi Protocol activated."