Better or Worse?

Noah was late. Once again. He'd gotten so involved in working on his new painting that he lost track of time, only to look at his watch and see that he needed to be at work ten minutes ago. He threw down his brushes and hurried out, not even stopping to clean paint from his hands.

Before he reached the club, he slung his items on the counter and rapidly shed his casual gear for his more formal outfit.

As soon as he looked up, the manager was already approaching him, with a wide grin on his face. Noah knew that look too well—it translated to one thing: dealing with VIPs. A task he despised with every fiber in his body.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the counter, readying himself.

"You know what you have to do tonight, don't you?" the manager's smile grew.

"You know I detest this," Noah growled, barely hiding his irritation.

"Do you think I care? You're getting paid, and I want my customers content. You win or lose." The manager's tone held an unmistakable threat.

A knot had built in the back of Noah's throat, but he compelled himself to nod. "Just give me the orders so I can start."

"Two mojitos, one cocktail, six whiskeys, and four Bacardis," the manager stated with a wave of his hand, as if giving a decree from the throne.

Noah balled his fists on the counter. This was his existence—serving cocktails to billionaires he loathed, just to make enough money to get through college.

The moment the manager turned away, Noah let out a sharp breath and tried to concentrate. Before long, the drinks were neatly placed on a tray, ready to be served.

"Noah!" The manager's voice sliced through the din as he came running over, gasping for air.

"Are the drinks ready?"

"Yes, almost. And perhaps catch your breath before you collapse," Noah grumbled, annoyance simmering just below his forced grin.

With the tray held tight, he approached the VIP area. His hold was firm, his pace careful. But just as he arrived at his destination, he bumped—hard—into someone.

A sudden gasp escaped him as green mojito splashed onto a pristine white jacket. A $1-million pristine white jacket.

Silence descended on that part of the club.

Noah swallowed hard, his eyes up. He was gazing into the face of a tall, beautifully handsome man. Gelled bangs, heart-shaped lips, a shiny stainless-steel chain around his neck, and a small mole just above his lips—everything about him cried perfection. But his deep brown eyes, now fastened on Noah, blazed with outrage.

"Do you even have eyes?" the man snarled, his voice artificially steady but full of annoyance. "Didn't you see me approaching?"

"I'm truly sorry for what I did, sir," Noah bowed, despising every moment of it.

The man laughed. "Do you think your pitiful little sorry will remove these stains? You were given one job, bro!"

That was instant upon! Noah had had enough.

"Sir, I know you're angry, but things happen." He kept his tone calm, attempting to diffuse the situation.

The man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, fantastic. Another nobody who thinks he's superior to me." He crept forward, his tone lowering. "You sasaengs get into all the places. We idols can never be safe."

Noah's jaw clenched. "Excuse me?"

"If you'd been listening, this would never have occurred," the man went on, totally ignoring him. "And we wouldn't be having this absurd disagreement."

"How dare a waiter be so rude?" The man took out his phone. "I'm reporting to the manager."

In a matter of seconds, the manager rushed over, almost tripping over his own feet. Across from him, cameras popped at the other side of the VIP entrance of the club, where a handful of paparazzi had been on standby to grab any misstep with celebrities.

"We sincerely apologize for our staff's actions," the manager explained, bowing so low that it was degrading. "We regret this occurred, and we'll be paying you back for any damage."

Noah's head swiveled back in his direction. "What?! Why am I apologizing? He was too busy looking at his phone to notice me approaching!"

"Enough, Noah!" The manager's voice was firm. "First, you mess up, and now you're fighting with a VIP customer? Shut up and come with me."

Noah was about to protest, but the manager reached out and pulled him into his office, then slammed the door shut.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the manager spat. "I told you—win or lose. And you know what losing entails."

Noah crossed his arms. "And yet you're faulting me for something that was not my fault?"

The manager blew out a breath, pushing his hair back. "You still don't get it, do you? Do you even recognize who that was?"

"No," Noah said drolly. "And I don't care."

The manager almost screamed. "That was Kai. Lead singer of 'The Neon Hype.' One of T-Pop's biggest stars."

Noah arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Mai pen rai. Everything will be okay."

But the manager wasn't buying. "No, it won't be okay. If I want to keep this club in business, I have no other option." He took a sharp breath, his face growing cold. "Noah, you're fired."

The words hit like a bullet. Noah's heart plummeted. He must've misheard.

"What?"

"You heard me. Pack your things. You're done here."

Noah clenched his jaw, his throat tightening as he fought back the sting of betrayal. Without another word, he stormed out.

The moment he stepped outside, paparazzi swarmed him. Cameras flashed. Microphones were shoved in his face. He pushed through the crowd, escaping into a quiet alleyway.

And there, finally, he broke.

He fell to his knees, holding his head as tears streamed silently down his face. "Why? Why me?"

But before he could even breathe, his phone vibrated. Reluctantly, he took it out. His screen was filled with thousands of notifications.

His gut sank.

A vicious headline stared back at him:

BREAKING NEWS: CRAZY FAN HARASSES OUR KING KAI. LET'S NOT STAY SILENT. #FIREHIM