Off To A Weird Start

It's Monday. Again.

You know what that means? That's right.

War.

And no, I'm not talking about the whole "saving humanity from impending time disasters" kind of war I used to handle as a certified (now forcibly retired) Time Warden. I mean the greasy, chaotic, ketchup-stained battlefield that is Fried Chicken Heaven during peak lunch hour.

The moment I wake up, I already feel the dread pooling in my stomach. Or maybe that's just the leftover gyudon I reheated at 2AM last night after rethinking my life choices. Either way, I stare up at my ceiling like a soldier before deployment, questioning every decision that has led me here.

But I get up. Like a brave, slightly underpaid warrior.

I go through my morning rituals like I'm prepping for a boss fight:

Brush teeth while contemplating life.

Avoid eye contact with the mirror because I know I look like a cursed raccoon.

Stare at my uniform like it's a chainmail armor made of polyester and chicken grease.

Finally, I slap on my name tag. "Shiwei."

Once I step outside, I knock on the door next to mine out of habit.

No answer.

Thank time itself.

Because if Akari answered, she'd probably pull me into another one of her spontaneous "missions," like hunting down limited edition bubble tea or chasing after a duck she swears looked at her funny.

And I, being the idiot I am, would go with her.

But today, no chaos.

Just me.

And the endless storm of customers who want to see if the 'hot chicken guy' is real or a marketing ploy.

By 11:15 AM, the restaurant is already a warzone.

Oil sizzling. Chicken flying. Children screaming. Mothers shouting. TikTok girls aiming their cameras at me while I hold a tray of wings like it's the Holy Grail.

"Excuse me, can you look this way and smile like you're enjoying life?" one of them asks, phone in hand.

I deadpan. "I'm frying fourteen buckets of thighs and dodging oil splashes from a sentient fryer. I haven't enjoyed life since 2037." it's just 2025.

They laugh.

I wasn't joking.

"Shiwei! We're out of spicy nuggets again!" yells Junpei from the back.

"Then make more!"

"We ran out of spice!"

"THEN USE EXISTENTIAL DREAD, JUNPEI!"

He throws me a thumbs up. "Got it, bro!"

Somewhere in the middle of juggling three trays, punching orders, and politely declining seventeen love confessions with my best customer service smile, I feel it.

That eerie, unmistakable tingle in my spine.

The Akari Sensor has activated.

I turn my head.

There she is.

Akari.

Peeking through the window like a raccoon with a mission, holding what appears to be a suspiciously large cotton candy shaped like a chicken drumstick.

I narrow my eyes.

She waves.

I wave back reluctantly.

I already know what's coming.

She enters the restaurant with the grace of a tornado wrapped in glitter.

"Shiweiiiiii~ You forgot your umbrella!" she says, plopping it onto the counter.

"It's not raining."

"But it might! You never know with the weather these days."

I blink at her. "You ran across street for this?"

Well, she literally works across the street, though. Wait... 

Doesn't she have work?!

She beams. "I also got a churro! You want a bite?"

Before I can say no, she's already shoving it toward my mouth like a mom feeding a toddler.

I bite it.

It's warm. Cinnamon-y. Disarmingly good.

Curses.

"...thanks," I mutter, chewing in defeat.

She swings around and leans on the counter. "Soooo, how's work?"

"Imagine being run over by a stampede of chickens while trying to juggle flaming batons. That."

"Sounds fun!"

"You're lucky you're cute."

She grins like a kid who just got away with stealing snacks before dinner.

Then it happens.

She turns. Trips. And knocks over a tray of soft drinks balanced precariously near the edge of the counter.

I act fast.

Time slows.

I rewind three seconds.

She blinks, suddenly upright again. "Huh?"

"Nothing," I say. "You're just... supernaturally lucky as always."

She squints at me. "Suspicious."

I sigh. Again.

Akari chaos status: Active

Guardian Angel mode: Online

This is my life.

Juggling fried chicken, dodging thirst traps, and bending time just so one disaster magnet doesn't trip on a ketchup packet and break her neck.

But then she looks at me.

Smiles.

And says, "Don't work too hard, okay? You'll get wrinkles. And then the customers will cry."

I chuckle. "What about you? You're my biggest customer."

She winks. "I only come for the view."

My face heats up. Betrayed by my own cheeks.

She leaves after that, but the warmth lingers like a post-credit scene.

I get back to frying, but all I can think of is,

Why does she affect me like this?

I mean, she's a total disaster. A walking accident waiting to happen. A pocket-sized apocalypse with sparkly shoelaces. But she's also...

Warm.

Bright.

And she remembered my umbrella.

I sigh and pour another batch of wings into the fryer.

Maybe love isn't just a big dramatic story with rose petals and fireworks.

Maybe it's churros at lunch.

Maybe it's rewinding time just to make sure the girl you like doesn't faceplant into a customer holding mashed potatoes.

Maybe it's Monday.

The beginning of war.

And somehow, I'm okay with it.

Because even if she doesn't know it...

I'll keep doing this.

Day after day.

Wing after wing.

Time rewind after time rewind.

Until I figure out how to tell her.

And until then...

I'll keep wearing this name tag like a badge of honor.

Because Top Service Crew or not, I'm also Akari's Unpaid Guardian Angel.

And that job?

Way harder than frying chicken.

...But worth it.

Probably.

Unless I get fried first.

***

It continued for days, and those days turned to weeks. Every single day, like clockwork, I found myself manipulating time just to keep Akari out of trouble. Akari has always worked at Ricebowl Haven across the street from Fried Chicken Heaven. 

She's a pro in the kitchen—everyone knows it by now—and the place has miraculously survived all this time because of her sorcery with a spatula. 

Seriously... 

she could probably turn uncooked rice into a Michelin-star meal with just a glare and a sprinkle of magic.

Me, on the other hand? I've somehow found myself stuck in a never-ending loop of reheating fried chickens that were already fried. Existential-level reheating. I stare at those crispy wings and think, "What is life?" And then I burn half of them while contemplating my purpose, silently mourning another fallen drumstick like it was a fallen comrade. 

There's a little memorial corner in my brain now labeled "Here lies Nugget, burned but never forgotten."

There's something uniquely soul-crushing about dropping a thigh into the fryer for the fifth time and realizing you're probably cooking it straight into another dimension. Sometimes I wonder if there's a fried chicken afterlife, and if so, am I the grim reaper of drumsticks? What a legacy. If there's ever a culinary version of purgatory, I'm already living in it—with an apron, a sweatband, and a name tag that says "Shiwei."

And as if juggling that wasn't enough, I spend every break watching over Akari from across the street, trying not to cause a time loop in the process. 

Because somehow... 

SOMEHOW! 

Akari still manages to run into chaos even when she's calmly garnishing a rice bowl. The universe must've made her out of bubble wrap and chaos glue.

Time-jumps left and right. Tripping over mop buckets. Almost slipping on soy sauce. A pigeon once got in through the back door and started a rice riot. I don't even know how that happens. I had to reverse time just to evacuate the bird safely while pretending everything was under control. I think the pigeon still holds a grudge. He looked back at me with vengeance in his eyes. Like, full-on "You'll see me again" energy. And I believe him.

And don't even get me started on the chopstick incident. All I'm gonna say is: never underestimate Akari when she's multitasking three rice bowls and a ladle. I had to rewind time three whole times that day, and even then, I ended up with a soy sauce bottle in her shoe. 

Don't ask how. 

I still don't know. 

Physics gave up that day and walked off the job....

Even when she's not in mortal danger, she's doing something unexplainably Akari. One time she tried to teach the delivery drone how to fist bump. I had to stop time just to make sure it didn't fly into the ceiling fan. The drone never recovered emotionally. I saw it later, hovering slightly to the left, as if its sense of purpose had been knocked out of alignment.

And now here I am, riding Silver Fang—my trusty beat-up bike with the personality of an old grumpy uncle. We were cruising back from another exhausting shift. The wind in my hair, my apron flapping behind me like some kind of tragic superhero cape, when I saw her.

Mrs. Henderson.

Queen of potted plants. General of the neighborhood watch. She was walking down the sidewalk in her flowery blouse and giant sun hat like the boss NPC she is. You don't mess with Mrs. Henderson. She once yelled at a delivery guy so hard, his GPS stopped working.

"Yo, Mrs. Henderson!" I called, waving a hand and even giving Silver Fang a little bell-ring for style.

Nothing.

She just walked right past me.

Didn't blink. Didn't wave. Didn't even glare at me like usual.

"Huh," I mumbled. "She must be mad because I haven't weeded her garden in like... three eternities."

Yeah. That's gotta be it.

Maybe it's the cosmos telling me I should finally trim the hedge that grew into the shape of a dinosaur. It's impressive, but she says it scares her grandkids. I think it's art. She says it's trauma. Tomato, tomahto.

Shrugging it off, I pedaled back toward the apartment. Maybe tomorrow I'll show up with some flowers as an apology. Or fertilizer. That sounds neighborly, right? I could slap a bow on it. Boom—thoughtful.

Besides... I had bigger concerns.

Like reheating another batch of chicken without creating philosophical crises. Or keeping Akari from stepping into another mop bucket disaster. Or surviving another day of pretending I'm not hopelessly in love with the walking catastrophe that is my neighbor.

You know. Normal stuff.