Chapter 3

By the time the car drove into the South District, it was completely dark.

Half the streetlights were out, and the air was thick with the mixed scent of cheap takeout food and backed-up sewers.

A Maybach stopping in a place like this was like wearing a tuxedo into a pigsty—extremely conspicuous.

But I didn't care.

Casey held his phone, pointing to a greasy fast-food joint ahead, its sign too grimy to read.

“Mr. Frank, the informant says Miss Summerville has been washing dishes here for the past few days. Sixty a day, meals included.”

Sixty a day. I closed my eyes, my jaw clenched tight.

Pushing open the car door, I walked straight towards the fast-food place.

Before I even entered, I heard a sharp scream.

“Are you blind?! This is my brand-new, limited-edition dress!”

A woman's voice came from inside the restaurant.

It was familiar, with that deliberately affected, saccharine tone.

I stopped outside the glass door. Through the greasy glass, I saw Summerville.

She wore a ill-fitting grey waterproof apron, her hair simply tied back with an elastic band, her face pale as paper, her jawline sharp from weight loss.

She was squatting on the floor, holding a rag.

On the ground was a spilled puddle of mushroom soup, and standing in front of her was a flashily dressed woman.

Ulysses, Summerville's college roommate, and an employee she had personally mentored and promoted.

“Ulysses, don't get so angry. She didn't do it on purpose.”

A man sat nearby, with slicked-back hair, wearing a poorly tailored custom suit, his legs crossed.

Wilson, Summerville's ex-fiancé.

“Wilson, I just can't stand it!”

Ulysses leaned into Wilson's arms, pouting.

“I'm usually not one for drama, but today is our company's IPO anniversary. And she, a dishwasher, spills soup on my leg? Isn't she doing this on purpose to annoy me?”

She deliberately emphasized the word ‘dishwasher.’

Wilson patted her hand, then looked down at Summerville, who was still squatting on the floor.

“Summerville, it's not like I haven't told you.”

He sighed, his tone filled with nauseating condescension.

“You insisted on shouldering that debt back then. Why put yourself in this situation?”

“Look at you now. You don't look like a top university graduate anymore.”

Summerville didn't look up. She meticulously wiped the soup from the floor.

Her movements were mechanical, numb, as if she couldn't hear what they were saying.

I watched her slender back, another memory unbiddenly flashing in my mind.

During the second semester of my senior year, five hundred dollars in class funds went missing.

I was the poorest kid then, and everyone pointed fingers at me, accusing me of theft.

Our teacher called me into the office and told me to empty my pockets.

I didn't. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my flesh.

Just as everyone was convinced I was a thief, Summerville pushed open the door and walked in.

She slapped a physics competition registration form onto the teacher's desk.

“He didn't steal it,” she said, pointing to the time stamp on the form. “From noon to one PM, he was helping the physics teacher organize lab equipment. Security footage confirms it.”

Then she turned to face the pointing students, her voice not loud, but incredibly clear.

“Being poor doesn't make you a thief. If you don't have proof, shut up.”

After school that day, she called out to me by the sports field.

No comfort, no sympathy.

She just looked into my eyes and said one sentence.

“Frank, never bow your head.”

But now, the girl who once told me ‘never bow your head’ was squatting on a greasy floor, bowing her head in front of a truly disgusting man.

“Where's the owner?! Call your owner out!” Ulysses was still screaming relentlessly.

The owner, sweating, rushed out, bowing profusely.

“How dare you hire such an untrustworthy dishwasher? Fire her! Or I'll make sure you get reported every single day!”

The owner looked uncomfortable, then turned to Summerville.

“Miss Summerville, you see… how about you take your pay and leave today?”