May 25th, 2025 – Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – 9:12 PM
I think you're overestimating a hundred humans," Joe said without looking up, stacking pans on the drying rack.
"I think you're overestimating a gorilla," I replied, elbow-deep in a steel pot so scorched it looked like someone cooked motor oil in it.
Joe shrugged. "Alright, let's stop. I'm not convincing you, and you're definitely not convincing me."
CLANG.
A sheet tray slammed against the metal table like a gunshot.
"Yo! What is your dumbass doing over there?" Omar barked, half-laughing, half-pissed.
That was just Sito being Sito. On the dish gun, spraying high-pressure water like he was fighting demons.
Joe didn't even flinch. "Why are you surprised? You know he's a little slow"
I laughed, and Sito yelled out, "All of y'all can suck my dick"
Joe wiped his hands. "I need a cigarette."
"I'm coming," Omar said. "Fuck this, man."
Sito let go of the gun, letting it dangle over the sink like he was clocking out of life.
I was left alone in the pit—surrounded by wet steel, suds, and judgmental stacks of plates.
"I mean, if we're all taking a break… then fuck it."
I peeled off my gloves and followed them out.
***
We stepped out the back door and cut through the garden. Fancy place—string lights, iron chairs, the kind of spot couples take selfies in. But we didn't care. We weren't dressed for customers. We were ghosts drifting past.
Out front, we hit the steps by the street. Traffic was lazy. The alley to our right smelled like piss and garbage. We'd be back there later to dump the trash.
Sito lit up first. "Y'all trying to get drinks after work?"
"You ain't even gotta ask," Joe said, exhaling smoke like a movie villain.
"Nah, I can't," Omar said. "Gotta pick up my kids. Got them for the weekend."
"Well, I'm down," I replied.
"I'm tryna get some bitches," Sito grinned, already scrolling through Instagram like it owed him money.
Joe rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, the bitches don't like me, so y'all got that."
We all laughed.
Then came a pause.
I broke it.
"That new girl Emily?" I said. "She got a fat-ass butt."
We were mid-laugh when it hit us.
The air got thick.
Sticky. Like breathing through slime.
The concrete beneath us glowed. A perfect circle of light, etched with symbols we didn't recognize—lines, dots, maybe letters. Maybe nothing.
Joe blinked. "Yo—"
Then gone.
***
I hit the ground hard.
Stone. Cold.
My body screamed at me, but my brain couldn't catch up.
I looked up.
Massive hall. Cracked pillars. Torches flickering on ancient walls. Soldiers lined the room like statues. Armored. Armed. Eyes dead.
On the throne sat a woman. Not in a gown. Not delicate. Battle armor. Sharp eyes. Sharper posture.
This wasn't a princess. This was a war machine.
I glanced around. Joe. Omar. Sito. All here.
Nobody spoke.
So I did, and I said the only thing that made sense.
"…What the fuck?"
The silence pressed down like weight.
Joe groaned and rolled to his side. His cigarette, still half-lit, lay crushed on the stone. Omar blinked fast like he'd just been flashbanged. Sito stayed flat, staring at the ceiling.
The summoning circle flickered once.
Pop.
Then nothing.
The air smelled like smoke—ours—and something older, stranger. Magic maybe.
Still, no one around us said a word.
Not the guards, standing stiff with their halberds and dead stares.
Not the robed guy, fingers still raised, mouth twisting like he just realized he summoned a bunch of rats instead of lions.
Not the armored man beside the throne, crown dented and heavy, staring at us like we were human garbage.
And not the woman on the throne. Her face slid from curiosity, to confusion…
…to disgust.
They looked at us:
Our dirty kitchen uniforms.
Sito's beat-up boots.
Omar's hoodie with the blunt burn.
Joe's stained apron barely holding his gut in.
And me. Covered in grease, still smelling like burnt pasta and dish soap.
Whatever they were expecting—it wasn't us.
Their disappointment was palpable.
I stood up first. Legs shaky. Heart racing. Everything felt wrong but… exciting?
Adrenaline. Shock. Terror.
And something else.
Joy?
I was smiling.
Didn't even realize it until I spoke.
"We just got isekai'd."
Silence hung like fog, thick and heavy.
Then, finally, someone spoke.
"He's the strongest?" The voice was unfamiliar—refined, clipped, condescending. It echoed across the grand hall, loud enough for us to hear but clearly not meant for us.
Several heads turned toward Sito, who was now sitting up and scratching his beard, completely unbothered.
"He is the shortest," said a second voice—older, male, steeped in disappointment. "Yet… his build suggests strength. Defined musculature. Military tattoos. Perhaps a street fighter?"
Sito raised a brow. "What the hell they talkin' about?"
"They're talking about you, bro," Joe muttered.
Another voice joined in—female again, this time smoother, colder. "The one with the curly hair appears average. Five-foot-seven. No obvious tone, but… not completely hopeless."
We all turned to Omar, who blinked, clearly still recovering.
"Oh, word?" he mumbled. "Average? That's wild."
"The short one… too thin. Malnourished? No signs of physical labor. Barely any facial hair." A pause. "He won't survive a week."
My smile vanished. "Okay, now I'm offended."
Then came a low sigh. "And that one—" all eyes shifted to Joe, still struggling to get up, his belly leading the way "—is entirely unsuited. Six feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds. Soft. No discipline. No value."
Joe just blinked. "Damn."
Their conversation continued like we weren't there.
"They don't resemble warriors," said the older man—probably a wozard, judging by the robes and permanent scowl. "They were meant to be heroes. Champions from another world. Divine fate was supposed to guide our summoning."
"Then divine fate must be laughing," the younger woman replied. "This is a joke. These are not heroes. They're… kitchen workers."
"They might still possess valuable talents," the king finally said, voice heavy like stone. "Magic is unpredictable. Their appearances may not reflect their gifts."
A beat passed.
Then the woman on the throne stood up. Her armor clinked as she moved, a mixture of elegance and intimidation. Her eyes—piercing blue, the kind you can feel in your chest—locked on us like we were stains on her boots.
She stepped forward.
"Greetings," she said, her tone sharp, deliberate. "We are the people of Elaria. You now stand in the heart of the kingdom of Vaelora."
We just stared.
She didn't wait for us to catch up.
"We performed a Hero Summoning," she continued. "Our goal was to bring powerful warriors from another world—champions strong enough to turn the tide of war. To save us from the threat of the Mawborn."
She looked us over again, disgust creeping back into her expression like it had never left.
"But instead… we received you."
Joe shifted uncomfortably.
"I see no steel in your eyes. No scars. No discipline. No strength. You are soft. Undisciplined. Ordinary. Whatever divine force sent you clearly has a cruel sense of humor."
Omar mumbled under his breath, "She got jokes."
The princess ignored him.
"There may yet be hope," she said. "If not in your bodies, then perhaps in your souls. In your professions. Your gifts. Your fate."
She drew in a breath, then pointed at us, one by one.
"If you possess even a spark of power, it will be revealed. Say the word: Status."
She waited.
I glanced at the others. Joe looked like he wanted to leave. Omar was still squinting like he'd just woken up. Sito was already grinning like this was a game.
Then I said it, quietly at first.
"…Status."