Russian scorpion

The Waiter’s Mask

The sting on Leo’s cheek had barely faded when the glass doors of the restaurant swung open again. A storm entered—dressed in silk and fury.

A woman in her late twenties marched down the aisle in stiletto heels, her jaw tight, eyes blazing. Behind her trailed a desperate man, face red, voice trembling with apologies.

“Leyla, please,” the husband begged, catching her wrist before she could dart past the host. “Just listen—just tonight. One dinner. I’ll explain everything!”

“Dinner won’t erase betrayal, Murat!” she snapped, her voice echoing loud enough to turn half the restaurant’s heads.

Leo closed his eyes for a heartbeat. Not again.

“Table for two,” Murat muttered to the host, forcing a smile while still clinging to his furious wife. “We’ll… work this out.”

Leo was unlucky enough to be the one assigned their table. He pasted on a professional smile as he guided them to a quiet corner. Quiet—for now.

But across the dining room, a new kind of chaos was brewing.

At a long table draped in white linen sat two families—one Turkish, one unmistakably Russian. The air between them was stiff, tense, but polite… until it wasn’t.

The Turkish parents were all smiles, speaking warmly of their son—tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly nervous, fiddling with a small velvet box under the table. Across from him sat a Russian girl, beautiful and sharp-eyed, her parents watching with hawk-like suspicion.

Leo caught the shimmer of the ring box as he passed, and in that instant, he knew: this was a proposal night. A fragile, dangerous thing.

But the Russian father’s smile was fading fast. “In Russia,” he said thickly, “a man works years before thinking of marriage. Not months. Months are nothing.”

The Turkish mother gasped. “Are you calling my son irresponsible?”

The Russian mother sniffed. “He is too young. And where is his career? Hm? Waiter?” She waved vaguely at Leo, mistaking him for the boyfriend.

Leo almost dropped the tray in his hands. What did I do?

The Turkish son turned red. “No! I’m—he’s just—” He stammered, glancing helplessly at Leo, who froze mid-step, caught in the crossfire like a deer in headlights.

“Waiter!” the Turkish father barked suddenly, waving him over. “Tell them—my son is hardworking, yes? A strong man!”

Leo blinked, caught completely off guard. “...He looks… very hardworking,” he muttered, deadpan.

The Russian father sneered. “Hardworking? Hah. In our family, men do not ‘look hardworking.’ They prove it. Show bank account, show business!”

The tension was climbing fast, voices rising, hands slapping tables.

And all the while, from the corner, the angry couple’s argument carried like wildfire.

“Do you think flowers erase lies?!” Leyla hissed, throwing her napkin at Murat.

“Not flowers—jewelry,” Murat cried, producing a box with shaking hands.

The entire restaurant groaned. Even the quarreling families paused to glance over, muttering in disapproval.

Leo stood between the two disasters, his tray trembling in his grip, his soul silently screaming. The walls felt like they were closing in—the furious wife on one side, the feuding families on the other, and him, the unfortunate waiter, stuck in the blast radius.

For a second, he thought about walking out. Just leaving the trays, the apron, everything. But instead, he plastered on that polite smile again, the same smile he wore in the ring when someone thought they could hit him.

Fight clubs are easier than this, he thought bitterly. At least there, punches make sense.

By evening

By the time the wealthy family swept into the restaurant, Leo already felt the weight of the day crushing him. His back ached, his hands throbbed under the crisp white gloves, and his smile was hanging on by a thread.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

They came like an army—grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, grandchildren, and even a baby still in a stroller. Fifteen people at least, all demanding, all loud. The host looked like he was about to faint when they asked for “the biggest table you have.”

Leo was assigned to them. Of course he was.

The moment he arrived with menus, chaos began.

The children were screaming, racing around the table like wild animals. One boy climbed onto his chair and banged a fork against his glass like a drum. His little sister shouted at him to stop, then stole his bread roll and stuffed it into her mouth. He wailed like the world had ended.

Leo’s smile didn’t flinch. This is worse than the ring, he thought, dodging a flying breadstick that nearly hit him in the eye.

And then there was the teenager.

A girl of about sixteen sat with her chin propped on her palm, staring at him with wide, dreamy eyes. Every time he poured water or set down a dish, she sighed loudly enough for the whole table to hear.

Her cousins teased her instantly. “Look, Aylin’s in love with the waiter!”

The girl blushed crimson, but only leaned further forward. “He looks like an anime character,” she whispered dreamily, not realizing Leo could hear every word.

Leo’s polite smile twitched. Anime character. Wonderful.

Meanwhile, the older family members argued endlessly about trivial things.

“Istanbul tea is better than Ankara tea!” one uncle boomed.

“Rubbish,” another uncle snapped. “Everyone knows Rize tea is superior!”

“Yes, yes, but why is the rice portion here so small?” complained the grandmother, shaking her head as if it were a national tragedy.

Every sentence felt like a bomb dropped on Leo’s patience.

The children screamed. The teenager stared. The adults debated tea and rice like politicians. And Leo? Leo kept walking back and forth, refilling glasses, balancing plates, ducking under waving arms, all while wearing the smile of a man who wanted to throw himself out the nearest window.

At one point, one of the spoiled little boys tugged on his apron and asked, “Mister waiter, do you have abs?”

The entire table roared with laughter. The teenager nearly fainted.

Leo froze, his polite mask cracking for just a second before he forced it back in place. “Your food will be here shortly,” he replied flatly, walking away before the boy could ask anything worse.

Hours later, when the family finally left—leaving crumbs, spilled juice, and a mountain of dirty dishes in their wake—Leo collapsed in the kitchen, rubbing his temples.

The cook patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Hard fight?”

Leo exhaled a bitter laugh. “Worse. Family dinner.”

By the time Leo pushed open the door to his small apartment, he felt like gravity itself had doubled. Every muscle screamed, his shirt clung with the faint and roasted lamb, and his ears still rang with echoes of screaming children and broken Turkish tea debates.

He wanted nothing more than to collapse face-first onto his bed and stay there until morning.

But the ring didn’t care about tired waiters.

He splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection. His hair was damp, his eyes shadowed, but beneath the exhaustion there was still that sharpness—the part of him that never truly rested. He taped his hands again, tightened his gloves, and slipped into the hoodie that hid him from curious eyes on the street.

The city was buzzing even at night, neon lights spilling across damp asphalt. Istanbul didn’t sleep, and neither did its underworld.

By the time he stepped into the familiar, suffocating air of the underground arena, adrenaline was already starting to burn away his fatigue. The crowd roared as he walked in, his name shouted from corners, whispered with awe.

He fought. Hard. Brutal. Efficient. His fists remembered even when his mind wanted to shut down. By the time the final bell rang, his body was trembling, but his opponents were the ones bleeding on the mat.

And then—finally—it was over.

Leo tugged his hoodie back on and slipped out the side exit into the night air, his lungs aching with relief. He thought about the silence of his apartment, about maybe—finally—sleeping like a normal human.

But that hope lasted only a second.

Because parked right at the curb was a black car, sleek and waiting. And leaning casually against it, with the patience of a man who knew he would get what he wanted eventually, was Kamal.

Leo froze, then let out a long, tired sigh.

“Not you again,” he muttered under his breath.

Kamal grinned like a cat. “You look good, Leo. Another win, another pile of money. But imagine what you’d be if you stopped playing waiter and actually joined us.”

Leo’s eye twitched. His back still stung, his knuckles throbbed under the tape, and all he wanted was a pillow. Instead, here was Kamal, the human embodiment of a headache.

“You know what, Kamal?” Leo said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m too tired to argue. Drive me home. Pretend I agreed. Whatever. Just… don’t talk until we get there.”

Kamal laughed, clapping his hands. “See? That’s the first step, Leo. First you let me drive you, then you let me show you the empire. Who knows—you might actually like it.”

Leo groaned, climbing into the car like a man heading to his own execution. If I don’t sleep soon, I’ll join the mafia just for the free bed.

The car pulled away, neon lights flashing across his face as the city rolled by. His head tilted back against the seat, eyes closing, but his mind refused to shut down. He knew Kamal wasn’t just giving him a ride. The man was circling, waiting, like a vulture that smelled blood.

And Leo? Leo was too damn tired to care—at least tonight.