Sergio
1917 Words
The city did not care who she was.
It did not care that she had escaped a brutal pack, that she had defied an Alpha, that she carried the blood of a Gamma and the calling of the Messenger. The streets swallowed her whole, indifferent and relentless, and by the third night, Iva was starting to understand something painfully simple.
Freedom was expensive.
She rented another cheap hostel room, this one even worse than the last. The walls were thin, stained with the ghosts of strangers who had passed through before her. The mattress dipped in the middle, and the air smelled faintly of mold and detergent that tried—and failed—to hide it. But it had a lock. And for now, that was enough.
She sat on the edge of the bed, counting the bills in her hand again. And again. And again.
Her money was draining far faster than she had planned.
Three months.
That was what she needed. Almost three months until the Lycan Academy dorms opened their gates, until food and shelter would no longer be things she had to fight for every single day. Three months of rent, food, transport, a prepaid phone plan, clothes that didn’t scream runaway.
Her chest tightened.
“I underestimated this,” she murmured, rubbing her face with both hands.
Avalon stirred quietly inside her, her presence steady but concerned. You are learning. Survival outside a pack is… unforgiving.
The next days blurred together in exhaustion and rejection.
She walked until her legs burned, feet sore in worn shoes, entering one place after another with the same fragile hope tucked behind her ribs. Cafés. Bakeries. Small shops. Laundromats. Convenience stores. Even a dingy bar that reeked of stale beer and regret.
Everywhere, it was the same.
Do you have experience?
We’ll call you.
We’re not hiring right now.
You’re too young.
You don’t have references.
The rejections stacked up, each one heavier than the last.
By the end of the week, her smile had become mechanical, her voice quieter. She learned to nod politely while swallowing the sting, learned to turn away before her eyes betrayed her desperation. The city did not kick you while you were down—it simply stepped over you.
One evening, as she passed a neon-lit strip club, music pounding through the walls, she stopped.
Just for a second.
Her stomach twisted.
No, she told herself immediately, jaw tightening. Not that. Never that.
Avalon growled softly in agreement. You are worth more than desperation.
But worth didn’t pay rent.
The doubt crept in late at night, curling around her like smoke. Lying on the thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, she questioned everything. Her escape. Her pride. Her choices.
What if I made a mistake?
What if I was safer as a prisoner than as a free failure?
The thoughts terrified her more than any Alpha ever had.
The next morning, she woke with dark circles under her eyes and something hard settling in her chest.
If the lower-end places wouldn’t take her, then she would aim higher.
It sounded insane even to her.
High-end restaurants didn’t hire inexperienced girls with no references and cheap clothes. They hired polished professionals, people who belonged in crisp uniforms and spoke with confidence.
But desperation made people daring.
That was how she found herself standing in front of Emilio, an upscale Italian restaurant tucked between glass-fronted buildings and luxury boutiques. White tablecloths. Soft lighting. The scent of basil, garlic, and something rich and intoxicating in the air.
Her hands trembled as she pushed the door open.
She hadn’t even stepped fully inside when she felt it.
That subtle shift in the air.
A presence.
Her spine stiffened instinctively, her wolf rising alert beneath her skin.
Shifter, Avalon whispered instantly.
A man stepped forward from behind the host stand—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked faintly with silver at the temples. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and knowing, scanning her in a way no human ever could.
Not predatory.
Assessing.
“Can I help you?” he asked, voice calm, but low.
“I—I’m looking for work,” Iva said, lifting her chin despite the nerves chewing at her insides.
The man’s nostrils flared slightly.
Then his gaze sharpened.
In a voice meant only for her, he asked, “Which pack?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
The truth came out before fear could stop it. “I don’t have one.”
His eyebrows rose slowly. “A rogue? You don’t smell like one.”
“No,” she replied firmly. “A lone wolf.”
That earned her a long, incredulous look.
“At your age?” he muttered, studying her again. “That’s… unusual.”
She did not look away.
“I can work,” she said simply. “I’ll do anything.”
He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “You have no experience.”
Her shoulders sagged despite herself. “I know.”
For a moment, she thought this would end like all the others. Another polite dismissal. Another door closing.
Then he exhaled, something like amusement flickering in his eyes.
“But,” he said slowly, “we do have a dishwasher position.”
Her head snapped up.
“What?”
“It’s not glamorous,” he continued. “Long hours. Hot kitchen. Hard work.”
“I’ll take it,” she said instantly.
He laughed, a low, genuine sound. “You don’t even know how much it pays.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “I don’t care.”
The man shook his head, still smiling. “You’re either brave or reckless, little wolf.”
“Probably both.”
That made him chuckle again.
“When can you start?”
Her answer came without hesitation. “Now.”
He extended a hand. “Sergio. Shift supervisor.”
She shook it, relief crashing through her so hard her knees nearly buckled.
“Iva,” she said softly.
As he turned to lead her toward the back of the restaurant, Avalon stirred warmly inside her.
See? her wolf murmured. Even in the human world… we are not alone.
For the first time since she had fled her pack, Iva allowed herself a real breath.
She wasn’t safe yet.
She wasn’t comfortable.
But she was standing.
And for now, that was enough.
--
The kitchen swallowed her whole.
Heat hit Iva the moment she stepped through the swinging doors, thick and suffocating, clinging to her skin like a second layer she couldn’t peel off. Steam hissed from pots, oil crackled violently, knives hit cutting boards in sharp, relentless rhythms, and voices barked orders in Italian and English, overlapping until it all blurred into noise.
Her shirt stuck to her back within minutes.
“This is your station,” Sergio said briskly, pointing to a long steel sink already overflowing with plates, pans, and utensils coated in grease, sauce, and half-dried food. “You keep it moving. No backups. No excuses.”
Iva nodded. “Understood.”
He studied her for a brief second longer, as if weighing something unseen, then turned and walked away.
And just like that, she was alone.
The first plate burned her fingers.
She bit back a hiss, dunking it into hot water and scrubbing harder than necessary, teeth clenched. The water was scalding, the soap harsh, stripping her skin raw almost instantly. Within minutes, her hands were red, stinging, trembling.
This is nothing, she told herself. You’ve trained through worse.
But training pain was clean. Controlled.
This was relentless.
Plates kept coming. Endless. As soon as she cleared one stack, another slammed down beside her. Pans heavy with oil, trays crusted with baked-on cheese, knives smeared with sauce that refused to budge.
Her arms ached.
Her back screamed.
Sweat dripped down her temples, soaked into her collar, slid between her shoulder blades. Her stomach growled painfully, reminding her she hadn’t eaten more than beef jerky and stale bread in days.
And then came the waiters.
They drifted past her station like peacocks in crisp uniforms, noses lifted, expressions bored or amused. One of them—tall, blond, with an expensive watch—snorted when he nearly bumped into her.
“Watch it,” he said sharply, as if she were furniture.
“Sorry,” Iva replied automatically, stepping back to avoid splashing water.
Another waiter laughed under his breath. “Careful, man. Don’t scare the dishwasher. She might cry.”
They laughed.
Iva scrubbed harder.
Don’t react, she told herself. They want you to.
One of them leaned closer as he dropped a pile of plates with deliberate force, water splashing onto her apron. “You miss a spot.”
She looked down, wiped it clean, and said nothing.
The laughter faded, disappointed.
It didn’t stop them.
“Hey, kitchen girl,” one called later. “You done with those? We actually need them sometime today.”
“I’m working as fast as I can,” she replied calmly, not looking up.
“Sure you are,” another muttered. “Low-class work for low-class people.”
Something in her chest tightened.
For half a second, she saw the pack again. The sneers. The whispers. The word runt thrown like a blade.
Avalon stirred, protective and sharp. I could break him.
No, Iva replied firmly. Not here. Not now.
She straightened her spine and kept washing.
Hour after hour dragged by. The kitchen never cooled. Her hands burned constantly now, knuckles cracked, fingers stiff. A plate slipped from her grip and shattered at her feet, porcelain exploding across the floor.
“Damn it!” someone shouted.
Her heart jumped. “I’m sorry—I’ll clean it—”
“Move,” the chef snapped, irritation flashing in his eyes.
She dropped to her knees immediately, sweeping shards into a bin, ignoring the glass nicking her skin, the sting sharp but brief.
Pain is temporary, she reminded herself. Survival is permanent.
At one point, her vision swam. She leaned against the sink for a single breath, just one.
“Break time?” a waiter sneered as he passed.
She lifted her head slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time that night.
“No,” she said evenly. “Just breathing.”
Something in her tone made him pause.
Then he scoffed and walked away.
By the time the rush slowed, her body felt hollowed out. Every muscle shook with fatigue. When Sergio finally returned, his sharp eyes took in her red hands, her soaked clothes, the empty racks beside her.
“You’re still standing,” he said.
Barely, she thought.
Aloud, she replied, “Yes.”
He nodded once. “Good. You can go and return tomorrow. You passed today’s trial.”
As she peeled off the apron and stepped outside into the cool night air, her legs nearly gave out. She leaned against the wall, chest heaving, lungs burning as if she’d run for miles.
Her hands throbbed.
Her clothes were ruined.
Her pride was bruised.
But she was still there.
Avalon’s voice was gentle now. You did not break.
Iva closed her eyes, letting the night cool her skin.
“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t.”
She straightened slowly, exhaustion heavy but something else stronger beneath it.
They could sneer.
They could mock.
They could look down on her.
She didn’t need dignity right now.
She needed to survive.
And she would.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
- Writer
