THE 24-HOUR SEARCH

FIRED FOR JUSTICE

*New Character*

ELSA POV

Hello, miss, can you help me pick a dress?

Sure, ma’am. My pleasure.

Sorry—your name?

Oh my name is Elsa, but you can call me Sunshine and I'm the store attendant here.

I always said that with a smile because it was true: people called me Sunshine long before I ever introduced myself that way. They said I had a warm smile—whatever that meant. I talked too much, laughed too loudly, and somehow made people feel better even on days when I was the one falling apart. That was just me, Elsa, the only daughter of two hardworking parents. Dad drove a school bus, and Mum baked the kind of bread that made the whole street smell like home, and I worked as a*****e attendant in a small but busy boutique. I loved my job more than I admitted. Making people feel good about themselves came naturally to me, and working in the boutique felt like the perfect place to do it, though I wished I worked somewhere better.

Customers didn’t just come for clothes—they came for honesty and a little joy. I was the type who would tell a woman, "Madam, this dress says you’re going to fight your ex, not attend a wedding," and she would burst into laughter and try something else. People trusted me because I told the truth gently and made them laugh while doing it. Life felt simple, predictable, almost soft around the edges. Until the day trouble walked in like it owned the place. A man literally dragged a woman into the shop. And from that moment, everything stopped being simple.

I froze for a second, staring at the man who had just dragged a woman into the shop like she was luggage. She looked so fragile that I honestly thought she might dissolve if he pulled any harder.

"Pick a dress. And do it fast," he snapped.

My smile vanished instantly.

Sir, relax, I said, stepping between them just a little. Let her breathe.

He glared, but I ignored him and gently guided her toward the racks. Up close, she looked even worse—eyes red, hands trembling so badly that her fingers kept slipping off the fabrics.

What’s wrong? I whispered.

She leaned closer, her voice barely audible. "He’s… my fiance.The dress he bought for his father’s birthday got burned. The maid did it, but I lied and said I was the one. I didn’t want her to get fired. Now he’s angry."

I blinked at her. Angry? That was an understatement.

You’re not even married to him yet? I asked.

She shook her head slowly.

Then run, I said, almost begging.

Please. This man will destroy you. No one who loves you behaves like this.

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

My father owes his father a lot of money. The marriage… is to settle part of the debt. My family already agreed.

My heart squeezed so tight it almost hurt.

So they want to pay the debt with your life?" I whispered.

Listen, look for the money. Borrow it. Work. Fight for yourself. Just don’t stay with him. You will never know peace with a man like that—I promise you.

I watched her swallow hard, her shoulders shaking. And in that moment, I wished I could scoop her up, hide her somewhere safe, and tell that man to go to hell.

Before she could reply, her fiancé stomped toward us and—right there in front of everyone—slapped her so hard that her head tilted. For one full second, I didn’t breathe. Then everything inside me exploded.

Before my brain even registered it, my hand had already moved—once, twice—two thunderous slaps across his face. Slaps so loud that the mannequins probably flinched. The entire boutique froze as if someone pressed pause.

Touch her again and you’ll see madness, I warned, my chest heaving.

He stared at me as if I were the violent one. His fiancée burst into tears, begging me not to escalate it, and honestly, the only reason I didn’t send the shoe in my hand flying into his destiny was that she grabbed my arm and whispered, “Please… don’t.”

He hissed, You’ll regret this. I’ll get you fired.

I scoffed. Good luck. You’ll need it.

Unfortunately, he didn’t.

Two hours later, my phone rang.

Boss.

The moment I picked up, he didn’t even greet me.

Elsa, you’re fired. You assaulted a customer.

I stared at the phone as if it owed me money.

Sir, with all due respect, the customer slapped his fiancée.

That’s their personal matter, he snapped. But you—

So if a customer slaps his fiancé in your shop, we should all clap for him? It doesn't become a personal matter because this shop actually belongs to your elder brother in the UK, and not you?

He cleared his throat, annoyed.

"Bring the shop keys.”

For the first time since I started working there, I begged.

Boss, please. I need this job. I only reacted because she was being mistreated. Honestly, I’m sorry. Give me one more chance—just one.

Elsa, you struck a customer—”

With equal energy, I corrected.

Hand over the keys!

I sighed deeply.

Okay, sir. But let me tell you this: If you ever raise your hand on your wife, I’ll come back and give you matching bruises. Mark my words.

He started to shout something, but I hung up. I didn’t have the stomach for another argument.

They sent the shop boy to collect the keys.

I didn’t just give them to him—I threw them like an Olympic athlete, and the boy had to jump to catch them.

The entire staff watched me leave, and I gave them my best tragic-hero exit: chin up, bag swinging, dignity dragging behind me like a wounded soldier.

All the way home, I kept rehearsing how to explain getting fired. Defending someone sounded noble… but rent was not noble. Food was not noble. Electricity was not noble.

So I bought pizza and drinks—bribery food—because when your parents are upset, carbohydrates can save lives.

When they came downstairs and saw the table, Mum blinked. Dad raised an eyebrow.

We ate.

Silently.

Suspiciously.

Peacefully.

Which was the perfect time to ruin everything.

After the last slice disappeared, Mum asked, “Elsa, what exactly are we celebrating?”

I smiled like a politician lying on national TV. Well… I got fired.

The way they both gasped, you’d think I said I burned the house down.

But!, I added quickly, raising a finger like I was delivering a sermon. I defended a woman. So technically, it’s heroism.

My mother’s eyes widened.

Heroism? Heroism at your job? Elsa, do you want to be a superhero or pay bills?

I nodded, very understanding. Which is why I’ve decided on a new plan—I’ll just marry a rich man. Problem solved.”

Dad coughed on his drink. Mum didn’t even breathe—she just grabbed a spoon like a warrior grabbing her sword.

Come here! Let me fix that nonsense in your head!

I screamed and ran, pizza grease still on my fingers. Mum chased me around the hall while Dad shouted, Agnes, leave the girl! Maybe the rich man idea is not bad—

Samuel, shut up!

That night, as Mum finally let me go and Dad negotiated peace, something settled in me.

I had no job…

no plan…

only spicy drama and a mother armed with a spoon.

But somehow, it felt like the beginning of something bigger.

_______________________________________

Elsa’s mother stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling behind her as she wiped her face gently with a soft white towel. She crossed to her vanity table, sat down, and reached for her silk bonnet. With slow, practiced movements, she gathered her hair into a loose twist, tucking every stubborn strand beneath the bonnet. The lamp on her side of the bed cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting the faint worry lines she tried to ignore.

When she finally climbed into bed, she found her husband lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with the kind of heaviness that didn’t need words.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow.

Why are you thinking so hard at this hour? What’s the matter? she asked, scooting closer.

He sighed—long and tired—before turning his head toward her.

It’s Elsa,he said quietly. I can’t stop worrying about her. Now that she’s been fired, what exactly is she going to do? She acts strong, but you and I know she doesn’t like stress. I keep thinking about it.

His wife let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head.

Oh, please. She’s a big girl. She’ll figure something out. Elsa always does. It might take her a moment, but that girl has a way of landing on her feet, even if she pretends she can’t.

Her husband sat up slightly, an amused look spreading across his face.

Figure something out? he repeated.Have you forgotten what she said earlier? She said she’d rather marry a rich man than go through the stress of looking for another job.

He let out a laugh—deep, genuine, and a little incredulous.

His wife blinked, then burst into laughter herself, the sound echoing softly around the room.

I thought you were in support of her.Well… she’s not wrong, she said between giggles.Think about it—marrying rich would definitely save her from stress.

He raised an eyebrow at her, pretending to be offended.

And what are you trying to say, madam? he asked, narrowing his eyes at her playfully.

She grinned, biting her lower lip as though she’d been caught saying too much.

I’m not saying anything, she replied, rolling over to face the wall. Good night, dear.

He shook his head, still smiling as she reached over to turn off the lamp. The room sank into darkness, broken only by the quiet rustle of blankets and the soft settling of two people who loved their daughter—but loved teasing each other just as much