’The mart.’
There’s a little corner store he always went to late at night.
It was a few blocks down where he buys instant noodles when he was too broke or too lazy to cook anything real.
He’d been going there for months now, always the sa routine. Walk in, grab the cheapest pack of ran, maybe a drink if he had spare change, pay, and leave.
The owner was always there behind the counter, friendly guy, always made small talk while Liam paid. Asked him about school sotis, comnted on the weather, that kind of thing. Nothing deep, but enough that they recognized each other.
’Maybe that crusty old man needs help,’ Liam thought. ’Worth asking, at least.’
He pushed off the counter and headed for the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, Liam stepped out of the shower, his hair still damp, water dripping down his neck.
He toweled off quickly and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Just presentable enough.
He grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out.
The walk took about ten minutes. The streets were quiet, typical for late afternoon on a weekend. A few cars passed by, so kids on bikes rode past laughing about sothing, and sowhere in the distance a dog was barking nonstop.
Liam turned the corner onto the street where the mart was, and there it was.
He’d walked past this place hundreds of tis, been inside dozens more. But he’d never really looked at it properly. Usually he was half-asleep or in too much of a rush to care.
It was a small corner store, squeezed between a laundromat and what looked like an abandoned office space with newspapers taped over the windows.
The building itself was old, the kind of place that had probably been there for decades. The exterior was painted a faded cream color, with peeling paint near the bottom where water damage had set in over the years.
Above the door was a hand-painted sign, slightly crooked, that read Mr. Sam’s Store in bold red letters.
The paint was chipping in places, but you could still read it clearly. Below that, in smaller letters, it said "Open 7 Days" and "We Have Everything You Need!"
The windows were plastered with faded posters advertising various products: Coca-Cola, Marlboro cigarettes, lottery tickets, beer brands, and a promotion for so energy drink that probably ended five years ago. Through the glass, Liam could see the dim interior, shelves packed with products, and the glow of fluorescent lights.
A small tal rack outside held bags of charcoal and so potted plants that looked half-dead.
Liam pushed open the glass door, and a small bell above it jingled.
The inside slled exactly how he rembered it: a mix of cleaning solution, old cardboard, sothing faintly sweet like spilled soda, and that distinct scent of a place that had been around forever.
The floor was checkered linoleum tile, scuffed and faded in high-traffic areas. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed quietly, casting a slightly greenish-white glow over everything.
The aisles were narrow, cramd with products on tal shelves that looked like they’d been there since the eighties.
Chips, canned goods, instant noodles, cleaning supplies, random household items, and a refrigerated section along the back wall stocked with drinks and a few sad-looking sandwiches in plastic containers.
Near the back, behind a scratched-up glass counter, stood the owner.
Mr. Sam was in his mid-fifties, with thinning gray hair combed neatly to one side and a thick, bushy mustache that dominated his upper lip.
His face was weathered, with deep smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He wore a faded blue polo shirt with the store’s logo stitched onto the left chest pocket and a pair of clean but worn khaki pants.
He was leaning against the counter, reading a newspaper spread out in front of him, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. A small transistor radio sat near the register, playing so oldies station at low volu.
When the bell jingled, he looked up, and his face imdiately broke into a warm smile.
"Liam! My favorite noodle custor!" Mr. Sam said, his voice loud and friendly. He set his newspaper aside. "You’re here early today! Usually you co at night, yes? Two in the morning, stumbling in here like a zombie."
Liam smiled. "Yeah, uh, not here for noodles this ti actually."
Mr. Sam’s eyebrows went up. "No noodles? Are you sick? Should I check your temperature?"
’Real funny, you crazy old man.’
Liam laughed. "Nah, nothing like that. I actually wanted to ask you sothing."
Mr. Sam leaned forward on the counter, his expression curious. "Sure, sure. What’s on your mind?"
’Here goes nothing’
Liam cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you had any job openings. Part-ti, whatever. I’m trying to get my money right, you know? With school and rent and all that."
Mr. Sam stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "A job, huh? You finally tired of being broke?"
"Sothing like that," Liam said with a weak smile.
Mr. Sam studied him for a mont, then nodded slowly. "You seem like a decent kid. You co in here all the ti, never cause any trouble, always polite. That’s more than I can say for most people who walk through that door at two in the morning."
He paused, then sighed. "Normally, I do everything myself. Stocking, selling, deliveries when people call in orders. Been doing it for years. But..."
He gestured vaguely toward the back. "I just opened another shop across town. Small place, nothing fancy, but it needs managing. So I hired a young lady yesterday to handle the counter here while I split my ti between both stores."
"Oh," Liam said, already feeling his hope deflate. "So the counter job’s taken."
"Exactly," Mr. Sam said. "But here’s the thing. Now that I’m not here all the ti, I need soone to handle deliveries when custors call them in. It’s not every day, just when people need it. But I can’t be biking around town anymore while trying to run two shops, you know?"
Liam perked up slightly. "So you need a delivery guy?"
"Exactly!" Mr. Sam said, snapping his fingers. "Soone reliable. Soone who knows the area. Soone who won’t eat half the order on the way there." He grinned. "You interested?"
"Yeah," Liam said without hesitation. "I’ll take it."
Mr. Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, giving Liam a long, appraising look. Then he let out a short laugh.
"I can trust you not to fuck this up, right?" he said, his tone light but with an edge to it. "I an, judging by the fact that you co in here every other night buying the cheapest pack of noodles like your life depends on it, I’m guessing you actually need this job. So you’re not gonna screw around, right?"
Liam blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness.
Mr. Sam smiled, but it wasn’t entirely friendly. More like the smile of soone who’d just stated an uncomfortable truth and was waiting to see how you’d react.
’Is it illegal to punch an elderly in the face?’
"Uh... yeah," Liam said carefully. "I need it. And I won’t ss it up."
"Perfect!" Mr. Sam said brightly, already moving on like nothing had happened. "So when can you start?"
"Right now," Liam said. "I don’t have anything else going on."
"Luckily for you, there’s an order that just ca in," Mr. Sam said with a grin. "I can show you the ropes right away."
They moved through the narrow aisles toward the back of the store and through a door marked Employees Only in faded lettering.
The back room was small and cluttered. Cardboard boxes stacked everywhere, a tal utility shelf cramd with extra inventory, a small desk buried under paperwork, and in the corner, a tall tal locker.
Mr. Sam opened the locker and pulled out a bright red polo shirt with the store’s logo on it, along with a matching red baseball cap.
"Your uniform," Mr. Sam said, handing them to Liam. "Wear this when you work. The locker’s yours now. Keep your stuff here."
Liam took the shirt and cap. "Got it."
"Good. Change up, and I’ll get your first delivery ready," Mr. Sam said, stepping back toward the door. "Take your ti."
He left, closing the door behind him.
Liam stood there for a mont, holding the uniform.
’Well, this is happening,’ he thought.
He pulled off his black t-shirt and slipped on the red polo. It fit decently, a little snug around the shoulders but not terrible. He adjusted the collar and then put on the cap, pulling it down low.
’I look ridiculous,’ he thought. ’But money is money.’
He stuffed his shirt into the locker and stepped back out.
Mr. Sam was behind the counter, packing items into a brown paper bag. He looked up when Liam erged and nodded approvingly.
"Good! You look professional," Mr. Sam said.
’Sure,’ Liam thought.
Mr. Sam finished packing the bag, stapled the top shut, and placed a small piece of paper on top.
"First delivery," he announced, sliding the bag across the counter. "Address is on the paper."
Liam picked up the bag and the paper, glancing at the address.
Apartnt 3B, 428 Maple Street.
"Got it," Liam said.
Mr. Sam led him outside through a side door. Behind the building, leaning against the wall, was a bicycle.
It was old as hell. Dull blue fra, scratched and dented. Handlebars wrapped in black electrical tape, seat held together with duct tape, and a front basket made of rusted wire sh.
But the tires had air and the chain looked intact.
"She’s not pretty, but she works," Mr. Sam said, patting the handlebars. "Treat her well."
Liam stared at the bike.
’This thing looks like it survived a war,’ he thought.
But he didn’t say that. He just nodded. "Thanks."
Mr. Sam leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Alright, kid. Let give you so advice. Custors can be picky about their deliveries."
Liam looked up from inspecting the bike. "How so?"
"So want you to knock loud, so want you to ring the bell quiet. So want you to leave the bag at the door, so want to see your face and say thank you. You gotta read the vibe, you know?" Mr. Sam said. "Always be polite. Always smile, even if they’re grumpy. And if they tip you, say thank you. Don’t count it in front of them. That’s rude."
Liam nodded. "Makes sense."
"Also," Mr. Sam continued, "don’t rush. Better to be five minutes late and safe than on ti with a busted bag and broken eggs all over the street."
"Oh, and that thing I said earlier in the store? That was a test. Custors say the dumbest, most annoying shit. You stayed calm. You passed."
Liam just nodded again, not sure what to say.
"Got it."
Mr. Sam paused, then his expression shifted into sothing more thoughtful. He scratched his chin and looked off toward the sky, squinting like he was recalling a distant mory.
"Now this custor..." Mr. Sam said slowly. "She’s a bit far. Across town. But let tell you sothing, kid."
He tilted his head back slightly, his eyes glazing over like he was seeing sothing holy. His mustache twitched, and a faint, wistful smile spread across his face.
"She makes it worth it."
Liam blinked. "Uh... what?"
Mr. Sam didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring up at the sky like he was ascending to another plane of existence, his smile growing wider, more blissful.
’Is this old man okay?’ Liam thought. ’Did he just have a stroke or sothing?’
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Mr. Sam blinked and snapped back to reality. He clapped Liam on the shoulder.
"You’ll see what I an," he said cryptically. "Now go. Don’t keep her waiting."
Liam stared at him for another second, then slowly turned back to the bike.
’This guy’s definitely lost it,’ he thought.
He placed the paper bag carefully into the basket and climbed onto the seat. It creaked but held.
"Go, go!" Mr. Sam said, waving him off.
Liam pushed off and started pedaling.
The bike rattled slightly as he rode, the chain making a faint clicking sound. But it moved.
The streets were quiet, the afternoon sun casting long shadows. Liam knew the area well enough, but Maple Street was farther than he’d expected. Mr. Sam wasn’t kidding about it being across town.
He took his ti, letting the cool air hit his face as he rode.
’It’s just for the money and keeping the system a secret,’ Liam thought, gripping the handlebars. ’Just for the money. Keep the system hidden.’
He kept repeating it in his head like a mantra. Maybe if he said it enough tis, he’d actually believe it.
After about fifteen minutes, he turned onto Maple Street and slowed down, scanning the building numbers.
420... 422... 426...
There.
428 Maple Street.
Three-story apartnt building. Red brick exterior, black tal railings on the balconies, small parking lot out front.
Liam parked the bike near the entrance, grabbed the paper bag, and walked up to the door.
He checked the address again. Apartnt 3B. Third floor.
The front door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The hallway slled like old carpet and cheap air freshener. Bland beige walls, flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Stairs to his right.
Liam climbed. Second floor. Third floor.
He walked down the hallway, checking apartnt numbers. 3A... 3B.
He stopped in front of 3B and knocked.
Footsteps approached from inside.
The door unlocked with a tallic click, then swung open.
Liam’s brain completely short-circuited.
Standing in the doorway was Miss Kelly
His lecturer
She wore a silk nightgown in a deep gray tone.
The fabric clung to her chest and caught the light.
A faint outline of a nipple showed through when eyes lingered. Thin straps rested on bare shoulders. The hem fell mid thigh and shifted with each step. Black panties showed beneath the sheer layer at her hips. The contrast pulled attention downward. Liam froze.
’The old man was right... This was actually worth it’
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