Greetings readers I'm the author of this novel
This novel was written beyond my own understanding.
All I ask for is your judgment.
Not kindness. Not comfort.
Just truth.
Truth is cruel—but cruelty is not a sin.
What hurts more than hearing the truth is believing a lie that felt real.
Working hard, yet feeling delusional…
That is the wound this story was born from.
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"The fire alarm shattered the room."
In a table setting where one sat straight across from another, two men were having a problem getting along.
One mentioned that he liked Ronaldo. The other mentioned Messi.
The man who liked Ronaldo said, "Well, I'm a Madrid fan. You see, we got Mbappé."
The other man, with a detested face, said, "He can never dream of being Lamine Yamal."
Eventually, the Madrid vs Barcelona chat ended.
To your surprise, it was a draw, with both sides' friends calming the situation. You see, they had one problem.
They were in a grocery store, and there is only one reason to go to such a place. The key. The medicine. The energy—an old ale-like drink was being served.
Eventually, everyone calmed down. Awkward laughs launched between both tables.
Suddenly…
A short-tempered, wishy-washy guy called Windyman just burst through the door of the room and said,
"Guys, Arsenal will win the Premier League. What a great match today!"
He's so simple to the point that he won't read the room. Even if you told him. Naive—or truly stupid. Unlike a normal human being, he operates on his own conclusions. If he's happy, everyone is. If he's vibing, everyone must vibe. That's why we call him Windyman.
Not that it mattered in this case, but then the
Madrid fan said,
"United is finished. I'm sure you guys should be dead last."
He turned around and looked at other City fans to roast. But things turned when the Barcelona fan started laughing and said,
"In the end, Madrid is Madrid. United is United."
The United fans all joined the chat, defending themselves, but the Madrid and Barcelona fans kept using metaphorical words to try to win the situation—while still roasting each other.
And Windyman made things worse by saying,
"Nah, Ronaldo ain't that big of a deal. Both Real Madrid and United can't compete with Arsenal and Barcelona."
As his name suggests, he probably said it because he's stupid.
The Madrid fan jumped on him with a punch.
The Barca fan joined in, blaming Windyman, and grabbed the chair near him.
He kicked the chair so the screws loosened, tripping a Real Madrid fan.
Everyone started hyping it up, and Windyman got hurt, so he grabbed a bottle and drank the whole thing.
As soon as he finished drinking, he threw it right into the face of the Madrid fan.
At that point, I reached out to stop the whole thing.
A policeman, with an aggressive tone, asked Kuzi,
"Why didn't you interrupt the whole thing if you could, huh? Answer me."
Kuzi's eyes were half-closed, like he was about to sleep, scaring the shit out of the policeman who was acting all strong. His voice just got stuck.
Kuzi breathed out slowly, returned to a neutral face, and said,
"Sir, I would get fired. I have gotten fired before. I can't interfere. As someone working here, I can stop a fight, but expecting it and trying to prevent it would definitely get me fired. I have no authority. That's all."
The policeman stared into Kuzi's eyes. Then he looked away quickly and said, with a vibrating voice,
"Okay. Next time, be careful. You might actually hurt someone badly. Make sure to report to us first. Get out of my face now."
Kuzi left without saying anything. No thank you. Nothing at all.
He went back inside and started cleaning the mess.
She said, "It's okay. I'll clean it. Don't worry."
He replied with a light grin,
"It's okay. I'm part of this mess, so I need to clean it."
She smiled, her face turning red.
"Thank you. For real."
He looked back, with no emotion whatsoever, and replied,
"You don't need to thank me. It's okay."
Since she might have been attracted to him, she initiated the chat, asking,
"But how did the fire alarm get triggered?"
"Hmmm… I mean, it's definitely because the fire alarm got smashed by the bottle Windyman threw."
She giggled.
"Windyman. What a great name. It actually suits him."
"Yeah, I guess."
A while later, Kuzi stood up and left the place, leaving the rest to her.
The manager showed up right around closing time.
He went into his office and asked Kuzi to come with him.
Sitting in his honored manager's chair, he said,
"Do you know who I am? No—actually, don't answer me. Kuzi, 'lil Kuz,' don't answer me."
The manager was a very wealthy man who owned many businesses. The fact that he still had a small, old grocery store was insane for anyone to believe—but it was a gift from his grandparents, meant to last decades with no further changes.
He continued,
"You see, I really like you, motherfucker. You really are something else. I'm going to reward you. Seeing the tradition of fighting over football like it's life itself must continue—not just the place. So I'm giving you a thank-you gift. Send me your account, bitch, and screw off. And do not—I mean it—do not say a word about it. Okay?"
That was a manager of pure tradition, honest to the core.
Kuzi wrote his account on a piece of paper, left it on the table, and walked out—head high, yet grounded.
He showed no emotion. He didn't even react to it.
He just went to get a bandage and wrapped it around his hand. That's it.
As expected, he went outside for a short walk before heading home. He turned around, looking at the beautiful night city. Everyone around him was a couple.
Oh… he heard a lot.
"I would take a bullet for you."
"I'm not cheating."
Kuzi muttered,
"What a waste of my single energy."
He pulled out his ear pads and put them on.
He took off his jacket and started running.
While running, he noticed a man on a bicycle suddenly appearing out of nowhere at incredible speed, right at a turning point.
Kuzi used his momentum to backflip.
As soon as he landed, he backflipped two more times—and hit an electric pole.
The bicycle man didn't notice him at first. When he did, he slowed down skillfully and stopped.
He jumped off his bike to check on Kuzi. A commotion started as people gathered around.
Kuzi was just trying to survive a hell-like headache. His head felt loud—like a broken speaker.
He woke up, walking like a kid learning to walk, scanning the ground, trying to find his ear pads.
The bicycle man pushed through the crowd and finally saw Kuzi's face.
His eyes widened. He felt betrayed.
Kuzi was still focused on finding his ear pads. He understood it was best to go home and rest. His head was bleeding from the pole's impact.
My boy pulled out a tissue, pressed it against the wound, tore his shirt, and wrapped it around his head.
He acted chill, emotionless—until he saw the bicycle man.
He felt wronged. Not because of the accident.
But because they had history.
The bicycle man said,
"hey… Kuzi. You're alive."