Clayton's POV
"These dishes aren't going to wash themselves, stupid West!" the hotel manager yelled at Clayton West.
He had never had a worse employer in his entire nineteen years of life than the scowling man standing right above him.
Clayton would have shouted back or groaned in response to the man, but he didn't want to be fired from his job.
Job hunting in New Eden was tough, and Clayton couldn't afford to be out of work for long. He grudgingly settled for rolling his eyes in secret, since the manager couldn't see his face.
With a little effort, Clayton rose from his squatting position beneath the sink and gazed down at the soiled plate heap inside.
"A plumber should come and fix this, sir," he said as he turned to face the manager, a sigh escaping him. "I can't do it," he added, taking off his gloves.
With a sneer, the manager gestured toward him. "I pay you more than enough to come in handy when these kinds of problems arise, so fix it!" He shouted and turned around to leave, only to pause in his steps.
"...and wash the goddam plates! I don't care if the sink is faulty!" the manager yelled, walking out of the kitchen.
Everyone in the kitchen was giving him weird and filthy glances, he noticed as he glanced around. He sighed and pulled his fingers through his hair in annoyance.
He had been repairing the sink since that morning, but it kept getting worse and would require an actual plumber to look into what the problem was.
Plus, he wasn't paid enough to fucking fix the drains! He thought.
A waiter threw another load of dirty plates on the sink, giving him a dirty eye. Clayton elected not to respond to that and started separating the glasswares.
He couldn't wait to get a better work and quit his kitchen job. He hoped his application to Kingston Elite Institution would be granted, despite the fact that his chances of admission were slim.
Kingston Elite Institution is the pinnacle of premium education, serving society's elite. The Elite Institution is only open to upper-class sons and daughters. Riches and privilege are required to enter its sacred halls.
Admission to the best and top institution in New Eden would not only help him secure a solid job, but it would also relieve some of his financial concerns, as they had promised to pay the special aid program student a million dollars every month.
" Stop daydreaming Clayton!" He mumbled to himself, carrying on with his work.
Clayton worked in the kitchen of one of the biggest hotel in the country as a kitchen assistant. His role was to help in acquiring ingredients and food stuff for cooking dishes as well as make sure the kitchen was clean and kept in order for the chefs to actually cook.
One would think that working at the biggest hotel meant that he got paid a lot of money, but it was still the same average income a worker received, mixed with a dosage of insults from his management and the cooks who he worked with.
He wore the washing gloves after he was done separating the glasswares, poured dishwash in the sink, and started scrubbing the plates when more piles of dirty dishes were added to the sink.
"Oh, c'mon," he murmured, staring at the kitchen assistant who had done it.
The kitchen assistant snorted, "You have only one job in this kitchen, West, and you suck at it." she mumbled, walking away.
Clayton scowled at her back as she walked away, and he had to fight the urge not to throw a dish at her head.
"Calm down, Clay; she's only doing her work," he whispered to himself as he proceeded to wash the dishes.
It took him around fifteen to twenty minutes to get rid of the unclean plates and meticulously set them where they should be.
When the sink was now empty, he heaved a sigh of relief and rested on the counter behind him, staying clear of the busyness in the kitchen.
In the vast five-star hotel kitchen, chefs rushed between stainless steel counters and towering shelves packed with materials.
Industrial burners roared, while the air was filled with wonderful odors.
The head chef controlled the bustling scene, ensuring each meal fit the hotel's high standards, but Clayton was done with his duties, at least for now, and deserved to rest.
Clayton's phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket to check the notice. It was against the kitchen rules to bring phones into the kitchen, but he had forgotten to drop it in his locker that morning.
When he turned on his phone screen, a message popped up.
"Do you wish to become rich?"
Two options were shown: [Yes] and [No].
Clayton scoffed. This was the second time he had received this kind of mail. Of course he wanted to be rich, but he understood the people sending these messages were fraudsters looking for someone to defraud, or they were spam messages.
"I can't believe you fucking have enough time to play with your phone during working hours while you ignore the work I pay you for!" the manager shouted, coming right at him.
Clayton blinked, wondering when the manager had entered the kitchen. In a rush to swiftly turn off the phone and hide it, he pressed [Yes] on his phone screen.
He groaned, realizing what he had just done, but it was already late as the manager seized the phone from his palm, turning it off.
"I'm sorry, sir. I just finished washing the dishes and was taking a short break." Clayton tried to apologize even though he knew it was fruitless and the man wouldn't return his phone till the end of the day's work.
The manager narrowed his eyes at him, eyeing Clayton. "You know what!, I've had enough with you today! I'm deducting your pay by ten percent!" he shouted, pointing at him with the phone he had snatched from Clayton.
Deducting from his wages that month was too much, as he had a lot of debts and bills to pay. Clayton needed every penny he could get.
His rent was long overdue, and electricity had been switched off since they were yet to clear their outstanding arrears. other utility bills was still pending, and he needed money for food.
His mother was borrowing money that she couldn't pay back, and there were repairs that needed to be done in the house. He opened his lips to appeal, but the manager dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
"Get back to work or I'll be deducting more than ten percent," the man spat, striding away.
Clayton sighed and observed the look of distaste from several of the workers in the kitchen. He was already used to the stares of contempt that he received from others.
Partly because of his background and class. His father was a criminal who was now serving time in jail, and his mother is a drug addict who spends her days getting high on drugs.
He belonged to the lower class and lived in the slums, where they were oppressed by the wealthy and upper classes.
They couldn't speak up or fight back out of fear because these rich individuals were also powerful and had ties with the police.
Some people who tried to speak up were arrested, imprisoned, and never released. In some cases, they disappeared into thin air for months only to return in a body bag, dead.
Someone once labeled him a leech because he stood near her. Sometimes he was mistaken for a petty thief seeking for an opportunity to pick pockets, just because he belonged to the lower class.
He shook his head and turned back to the sink. To his greatest amazement, he saw that the sink was once again crowded with dirty plates.
"What the hell!" he shouted in a low voice, taking up the dropped gloves again. It wasn't even the weekend yet when the hotel had a lot of customers and plates were piling up, he thought.
In the middle of washing, he found out that the sink was clogged again. Okay! This was it! He thought, removing and tossing the gloves.
Either the manager hired an actual plumber to come fix the sink or he was going to report the situation to the hotel director.
He spun around hastily and almost bumped into a trolley laden with different delicacies.
" West! Good. You're free. I need these meals delivered to the penthouse immediately." Their head chef instructed, turning the food cart towards him.
Clayton squinted in confusion. "What happened to the waiters? Kathy? Can't you send her?" He inquired, a frown engraved on his face.
The chef wrinkled his eyes and sniffed, "Do you think I would be talking to you if there was someone else!" He scolded in a strained voice. "Get that food delivered to the penthouse, ASAP," he demanded.
Clayton opened his mouth to complain, but the head chef was already out of his sight. He flung up his hands in frustration and anger. He had a lot of work to do and it didn't include delivering food.
" Great! Just great!" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Now he had to go to the only area he stayed clear of in the entire hotel; The penthouse, or, in other words, Billy Duncan's lair.