Chapter 94 Starting Out Working at a Small Restaurant
You haven't yet found a way to use this tool to identify the liquidators, but you'd like to be sure of one thing.
Tamara had no markings on her body.
She was simply cheerful and had never killed any other outsiders.
Tamara put the soul talisman away again, but then glanced at her phone and indicated that she was leaving.
"To be honest, I really like dungeons. After all, in real life I don't have that many opportunities to travel around and meet people... Ugh, I have an appointment for a manicure and a treatment. It's so cold here, I have to go now. Good luck! Be sure to contact me after you find your phone!!" With that, Tamara picked up a bunch of things, put on that huge, fluffy hat that you only see in short videos, typical of the Eastern Gull people, fluttered her exaggerated false eyelashes that were so thick they could cover up her race, and strode away in her thick-soled fur boots.
You are left alone, under the subtle gazes of the Roses in the room, sipping the remaining chocolate with your head down.
Tamara was certainly warm and friendly, but her long speech was, after all, just oral. All you had in your mind were vague impressions like "you can't refuse to drink," "this isn't yours, you can't wear it," and "that is yours, don't wear the wrong thing."
It really was a disastrous start.
You don't even have a cell phone, so finding your place to live is impossible. Besides, your clothes aren't exactly warm.
You don't feel it when you're freezing outside, but after being indoors for a while, even a little bit of the wind blowing in when someone walks into the store will make you shiver—you're only wearing an inner jacket, and the thicker coat is probably lost along with all those other things, most likely left at the place where you're drinking.
sigh.
What else can you do? Even if the "you" you were in before waking up hadn't gone far before passing out drunk outside, and the bars you went to before were on this street or nearby, it would take forever for someone like you, who doesn't speak the language, to go and ask around and find them one by one.
This is assuming your coat is actually left in someone else's store.
Dungeons may play tricks on you, but they won't create a situation where you're guaranteed to die and have to go and die for nothing.
Being investigated by the police as soon as you wake up might be an implication in itself.
Now all you can do is go back and find the police.
But Tamara and what you've witnessed have already reminded you—they won't help you for nothing.
So you need to get the money first. You wanted to borrow some money from Tamara, but she talked so fast, like a barrage of firecrackers, you didn't even have a chance to say it…
The only option is... illegal work.
Your face is all long.
After lingering in the warm bakery for a while longer, you hunched your shoulders and braved the cold wind to rush outside.
After walking along the street for a while, we passed through a small alley, where a small restaurant at the end of the alley finally caught our attention.
The restaurant here has an oil-stained wooden sign hanging at the entrance, the contents of which you don't know. But behind the decor and the glass windows inside, a burly, gray-haired typical Slavic woman is standing at the bar, wiping the tables. She is wearing a cotton apron and has a serious, unsmiling expression on her face. You can probably tell that this is a place similar to a family-run restaurant.
Inside her shop, a young worker who looked like he was from Yazhou was busy at work, and several other young people who appeared to be minors helping out were also working tirelessly.
This seems to be the best job opportunity you can find for the time being.
If you're cheap enough.
You swallowed hard, pushed open the door, and a wave of cold air rushed in with the movement. The boss looked up at you, frowned, and said something.
You adjusted your breathing, opened your mouth, mustered your stiff facial muscles, and whispered as clearly as possible, "job."
The elderly boss raised his eyebrows, his somewhat hazy blue eyes hidden beneath his brow bone, and stared at you with a sinister look.
Forcing yourself to speak, you continue, "Money. I need money. Please."
She squinted and looked you up and down, as if assessing whether you were trustworthy.
The air was filled with a warm aroma of oil and thick soup, which made your stomach involuntarily contract slightly.
The boss clicked his tongue and shouted, and the worker from Yazhou ran over, talking to the boss while giving you a strange look from head to toe.
"Where are your documents?" the young worker asked, stepping forward in broken English. He wasn't from the Flower Kingdom, nor was he a foreigner; he was originally a "local" from a certain ethnic group in the Kingdom of Los. "The boss needs your documents."
It's not that simple after all. But you don't have any other chances. There aren't many shops on this street, and this is the only shop owner who looks kind and might be willing to help. Most importantly, you're too cold. If you freeze to death on your first day in the dungeon, you'll be really angry.
Don't show weakness. Try to answer with a calm tone and sincere expression: "I lost it, so I urgently need something that can earn me some money."
The assistant relayed your request to the boss, and you explained, "I don't need a lot of money; I just need a little money to solve this immediate problem."
"Please."
After hearing this, the boss snorted and didn't ask any more questions. Instead, he turned around, picked up a rolling pin covered in flour, and pointed towards the kitchen.
"She said, 'If you're not afraid of getting dirty, then go and do the work.' The worker said to you, smiling and patting your shoulder, 'Our boss is a very nice person. Since you're having difficulties, as long as you work hard, she'll help you.'"
You nodded, quickly rolled up your sleeves, and headed to the kitchen.
If you have the chance, it's just a matter of a few hours, you can't possibly...
Never mind, don't be too definitive.
There weren't many people helping in the kitchen; everyone was busy preparing food. Even though you'd never done it before, you just followed what everyone else was doing.
There is indeed a shortage of manpower here; even with an extra quick person like you, you're still working up a good pace.
Soon, it was lunchtime. The boss called out a few times from outside, and the kind-hearted worker also gave you a ride out.
The boss is giving a speech to everyone, but you don't understand it, and of course, you probably don't need to listen to anything.
If there was anything that needed to be done, the boss would have that junior employee relay it to her.
Now, the boss assigns different tasks to each person on a temporary basis, which is characterized by random and unclear division of labor.
The boss didn't show any expression, just snorted, picked up the rag on the table and threw it into your arms, his tone impatient.
"Table, hurry up," the worker whispered to you.
You immediately realized she wanted you to wipe the table, so you quickly took the cloth and turned to walk towards the restaurant's front hall.
Quite a few guests have already arrived, and the air is filled with the aroma of stewed meat, borscht, and bread. Your stomach is rumbling.
That's not the most unbearable thing, the main thing is... why do these guests always look at you so subtly?
Being stared at in Western countries isn't uncommon, but it's never this blatant. What you've experienced before is more of a curious stare, but here… honestly, these guests all have such sour expressions; you feel like they're about to punch you.
It felt like a thorn in my side.
A girl with a Chinese appearance working in a small local restaurant in Los Angeles is both incongruous and inevitably makes the locals a little wary. You then realize that the assistant almost never appears in the front of the house, but only helps out in the kitchen.
Several guests didn't even hide their suspicious looks, as if they were wondering if you were an illegal worker from somewhere, or something that shouldn't be here at all.
"Let them look. You're really in a bind. You have no choice but to bow your head when you're under someone's roof." Silently wiping the table, she stopped thinking about these issues.
However, these guests are alright. When you actually clear their tables, they will say a few words that sound like a greeting.
Okay, you don't really understand how the locals behave here, so just give a friendly smile in response.
Until you wipe the table in the very corner.
Your hand paused hesitantly.
No one sits at this table.
But the chairs were pulled out, and the table was set with complete and clean tableware, a bowl of hot borscht and a piece of rye bread, as if someone had just sat there to eat.
You frowned, a strange feeling rising in your heart.
You turn to ask someone for help, wanting to ask if this table should be wiped, but the restaurant gradually gets busy, and everyone is busy with their assigned positions, so no one pays attention to you.
You can only rely on yourself.
What were those rules Tamara mentioned again? Oh no, all you remember is a bunch of rules that make people disappear.
Standing in front of that table, gripping the rag tightly, you repeatedly ponder whether or not you should clean it up.
If you just ignore this table, what if the owner thinks you're not taking your job seriously? But if you rashly reach out to tidy it up, what if it's "a certain type of customer's table"? Wouldn't you be making a serious mistake?
In that brief moment of contemplation, a waiter in an apron walks past you carrying a basket of bread.
The opportunity has arrived.
You pretend to accidentally knock the bread basket to the ground.
"rrrrr!" The waiter immediately frowned, glared at you fiercely, and made a series of exaggerated "r" sounds, clearly dissatisfied with your clumsy performance as a temporary worker.
You quickly lowered your head and smiled apologetically, "Sorry, sorry."
Quickly crouch down and start picking up the pieces of bread from the ground.
Your original plan was to take this opportunity to leave the area around this table.
But when you reached under the table to pick up a piece of bread that had just fallen, your pupils contracted slightly—
—It was bitten.
You move your hand aside to pick up another piece of bread, but your eyes remain on this piece.
I got bitten again.
Okay, I understand. There is indeed an unseen guest "sitting" at this table, and if this guest is humanoid, she may also be accompanied by an unseen pet.
Suppressing the urge to get away from the trouble, she kept her head down, quickly wiped away the breadcrumbs around her, then stood up as if she hadn't noticed anything and calmly patted her apron.
The waiter who had complained earlier only complained briefly, and when he saw that you had cleaned it up yourself, he went back to doing his own thing, which made you feel even more relieved.
But you know in your heart that the problems have only just begun.
—Since there are "guests" at this table, how do you determine when they will finish eating?
If it were a regular customer, they would quickly clean up after everyone stood up and left together. But here, there was no sound, no movement, and you couldn't even see a shadow under the table... How could you tell if the meal was over?
You can't just keep throwing bread under the table, that's not allowed either. Besides, it's not really appropriate to use food from the store to amuse customers (or their pets) while you're at work.
Worse still, if you just leave a dirty table here unattended, you'll completely ruin your job as a waiter.
You must find a suitable reason to give yourself the opportunity to learn "how to tell if a guest has finished eating" without revealing that you already know something is wrong.
You need help.
The only person you can trust is the Zhongya employee who has already helped you.
I carefully gathered the trash, hurried into the staff area, and found the young worker. He was still tidying up plates in the kitchen. When he saw you heading straight for him, he continued working, but smiled kindly.
"How do you know when the guests have finished eating?" You don't stand on ceremony and get straight to the point, so as not to waste their time.
The young worker looked up at you, squinted his eyes, seemingly weighing your question, before slowly saying, "Look at their plates."
Nod and wait patiently for his further explanation.
"When regular customers finish eating, they will place their knives and forks on the plate at a four o'clock angle."
"This way, we can distinguish whether a guest sitting alone is going to the restroom or has already left."
I see.
You sincerely thanked him, but you were already thinking about something else.
Adjusting my mindset, I walked back to that table and subtly glanced at it.
The plate still contained the same borscht, a small piece of rye bread, and a slice of pickled fish, with the utensils placed exactly as they were next to the soup bowl.
Unlike the lively, hungry little creatures under the table, the guests dining at the table seemed to have little appetite.
You walked around the restaurant twice more, clearing away leftover food and dishes, but when you passed by here again, the food hadn't decreased at all.
Is it that the guests don't like to eat it, or that they simply can't eat it?
But if they don't eat, the restaurant can't just kick out a customer who "doesn't exist," right? So how are they supposed to leave work?
Is that really the case?
Lowering your head, you hesitantly reach out, following the rules you just learned, and gently place the spoon in the soup bowl, adjusting it to the four o'clock position.
Everything in the restaurant was still normal, except for a gust of wind that passed by you.
It blows so hard it makes your hair stand on end.
Gritting your teeth to overcome the unnatural trembling in your body, you quickly cleared the plates from the table.
Just as you turned to leave, you noticed something new on the table—
A smooth amber bead.
You didn't understand, so you just looked down at it.
It lay quietly on the table, like some kind of small souvenir, or perhaps... a reward.
What makes you deserve a reward? If you really want to give a tip, why not give money?
You call over other waiters, generously point out the amber beads to them, and humbly continue cleaning the rest of the area.
But the moment you take your first step, you hear a very soft, almost whispered chuckle—coming from the table behind you.
Tensioning your body, you resisted turning around and quickly walked to the next table, wiping again and again.
Nothing else strange happened.
Lunchtime ended quickly. You wiped the last table, stretched your aching back, and the restaurant gradually quieted down.
This casual restaurant closes before dinner, and all the staff are cleaning up in preparation for the next day's business.
When you approach the counter, the owner is standing there, flipping through an old ledger. He only looks up when he hears your footsteps.
You were prepared for her to give you a cold look and casually throw a few bills at you, or harshly deduct some of your salary. You had even put on the fake smile that you hadn't used in a long time, the kind of smile that only a corporate slave would wear. But this old lady, who always looked angry, actually smiled.
Hey, after all this time, this is the first time you've seen a smile on her face.
She mumbled a few words in Rosenborg, handed you a stack of banknotes, and gently patted the back of your hand.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to call it compassion.
You paused for a moment.
From morning until now, you've been on edge, facing terrifying rules and unknown "guests." You haven't even had lunch yet. You feel like you've never been so unlucky, and you can't help but complain. Now that the boss has some free time, his attitude has completely changed. Is this how people in Los Angeles are? They seem cold and scary, but occasionally they unexpectedly show warmth.
The owner didn't say anything more, but took out an earthenware pot, picked up a mug from under the counter, and poured a bowl of meat soup into the mug.
A rich aroma wafts through the air, with finely chopped dill leaves and carrot chunks floating on the steaming broth, offering a comforting warmth that makes you want to drink it all.
"She wants you to drink before you leave." The helper appeared immediately to translate for you.
You are indeed very hungry and touched, but you won't easily eat food of unknown origin in a new instance when you're completely clueless.
You took a deep look at the broth in the bowl and said sincerely, "Thank you very much, but I need to go find my things right away."
Since you've politely declined, the boss has nothing more to say. He simply nods and has the waiter take the soup away.
You said goodbye to her, clutched the money in your hand, and turned to leave the restaurant.
But before you've taken more than a few steps, you hear footsteps behind you—someone is following you.
Looking back, I saw it was that Chinese-Asian laborer.
He gave you a half-smile, half-amused look, and said with a hint of amusement, "Why don't you ask someone for help when you're all alone?"
What? This person's tone is really greasy, to put it bluntly, it's sleazy.
You frowned, didn't answer, and just quickened your pace to get on your way.
But he didn't stop. Instead, he ran faster, caught up with you, and reached out to grab your wrist.
You slap his hand away and shout in a soft voice, "Don't touch me!"
The other person was taken aback, and the smile on their face froze for only a moment before they put on a fake expression: "What's wrong with you? I just wanted to help."
Your patience is wearing thin. You know perfectly well that this person doesn't really want to help.
But what really annoys you is that he doesn't take your rejection seriously at all.
Sure enough, after a few more steps, his hand reached out again, this time to put it on your shoulder.
You completely turned cold.
You don't like to cause trouble, but if trouble comes looking for you—
Then you are definitely not afraid of trouble.
You didn't give him a third chance.
Bang!
A punch was slammed right into his face!
You saw this small-headed man fly backward after being hit by you, and crash heavily to the ground.
Huh? You yourself were startled by the force of that punch.
Okay, you haven't been able to use your power properly for a long time.
Previously in the Neon instance, your size and strength were weakened too much, and now that you've returned to normal, you're not quite used to your original strength.
This explosive power actually knocked the opponent to the ground.
He covered his face and didn't get up for a long time; he was probably knocked unconscious by you.
You really didn't intend to beat someone up like this, Laizhe... Oh well, what's done is done.
You shook your hand and stared coldly at him. In that brief moment, you were so frozen that you couldn't utter a sound, so you simply cursed him in flowery language: "Get lost! You bastard!"
Whether he understands or not, you've just vented your anger.
There were few people around. Although it was late afternoon, it was quite cold. There were few pedestrians on the street, and it didn't seem like there were any security cameras.
You stare at the man on the ground, watching him finally struggle to sit up, his eyes filled with anger, but he dares not reach out again.
Good, he finally understands that you're not someone to be trifled with.
You didn't look at him again, turned around, and thought you should hurry to find the police post—you had passed by it before. Or at least find a patrolling police officer.
Clutching the money in your pocket, you walk down the empty street.
You may not recognize the currency of the Kingdom of Los, but after seeing the money paid by the customers in cash, you can probably tell that the wages you earned from working a few hours are still respectable.
The snow on the street had been trampled into a dirty, hard layer, and the cold wind, carrying shards of ice, scraped against your cheeks like razor blades.
You pull your collar tighter, walk faster, even faster, and finally, at the end of the alley is an old building with an indescribable style, with a faded blue sign with white lettering hanging at the entrance. Is this the place?
On the steps, a policeman in an old uniform leaned against a pillar, lazily smoking a cigarette, his eyes vacant.
This is the place.
You swallowed hard, lifted your foot, and walked towards the old policeman who instantly became alert upon seeing you.
You proactively raised your hand and even pulled a corner of a banknote out of your pocket as a hint to him.
He immediately nodded in satisfaction, his sharp brows softening as he warmly welcomed you into the house.
The room was dimly lit and filled with the lingering smell of secondhand smoke and alcohol, which I couldn't tell if it came from the old policeman next to me or from somewhere else.
Behind the reception desk sat an obese male police officer with thinning hair, the buttons of his uniform teetering precariously due to his enormous belly.
He was typing on the computer keyboard with his stubby fingers, looking so lazy that he seemed about to lie down and go to sleep at any moment.
As soon as he stood still, without even lifting his eyelids, he casually grabbed a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and asked a question in Rossi as he lit it.
You don't understand.
In the calmest tone, you slowly whisper, "Excuse me, can you speak the Ying language?"
With a cigarette dangling from his lips, the chubby policeman looked at you impatiently, slowly shook his head, and continued to utter a few words in the Ross language in a flat tone.
You took out a few bills and handed them to him, then he tapped the table with his fingers and called out, "Anton!?"
It sounded like a name, and sure enough, a few seconds later, a younger male police officer emerged from behind.
He seemed a little better, yawned, and looked at you lazily: "What is it?"
You quickly nodded: "Yes! I lost my phone and a lot of other things. I need help."
The policeman named Anton rubbed his temples, picked up a cigarette from the table, blew a puff of smoke towards the ceiling, and said wearily, "Where?"
Your lips twitched—if you knew where you lost it, why would you need to look for them?
But you held back your complaints and just shrugged, saying, "I don't know, it might have been stolen." At the same time, you handed over the money again.
Anton was speechless for a moment, then clicked his tongue. He took the money and was about to say something when the old policeman chimed in, "You lost your phone and don't have any identification. That's a problem."
He deliberately emphasized the word "problem".
Of course you know the rules, so you take out a few more bills and quickly stuff them into his hand.
He glanced at it without even lifting his eyelids: "No, no, no, there's a big problem. This isn't enough."
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and pulled out a few more bills.
If you ask for it again, you really won't have it anymore. Please, stop messing around.
Fortunately, the older officer and the fat officer exchanged a glance. The fat one immediately reached out, slowly put the money into the drawer, and instantly put on a "getting down to business" expression, shouting into the drawer, "Vasily! Passportrrrrt!"
Soon, several male police officers, mostly older, strolled out from behind, carrying some messy notebooks, and began to "work hard".
Some people opened a drawer and rummaged through it, some picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons randomly, some went into the inner room and came out a few seconds later...
You have no idea what they're doing when a male police officer suddenly walks over, carrying a large, fluffy down jacket, and casually slaps it on the counter.
ah?
Is this... found?
Even if you anticipated that "the loss of important background objects might be part of some kind of dungeon arrangement," you still find it ridiculous.
You grab your coat and rummage through the inside and outside pockets.
Okay, okay, wallet, phone, passport, and even a few orange slices that I must have stuffed into my pocket when I was drunk.
The passport photo and all the information on the visa page were intact.
Never mind, let's leave it at that.
You look at those male police officers, and they all look at you with an expression that says, "Aren't we efficient?"
The veteran policeman grinned as he puffed out a cloud of smoke, then slapped the table: "You see? The Los Angeles National Police... extremely efficient!"
You quickly put your clothes back on and exclaimed in an exaggeratedly fawning tone, "OMG! National Police Officer Rose is amazing! So efficient! Thank you, thank you!"
The male police officers were very happy with your praise. The chubby police officer even patted his chest and smiled like a satisfied fat cat (not the drowned version).
You didn't know what to say, but you still put on a grateful expression, nodded vigorously, and continued to praise them. While they were still immersed in their "great pride," you quickly walked out of the police station.
You've only gone a few steps before you're overtaken again.
Stop messing around!!
You stared at the young police officer named Anton who was catching up with you, looking as if you'd seen a ghost. His face was grim, and you were prepared to use the Ghost Bride's hair to deal with him.
But then I saw him reach into his pocket and put the few small bills you had given him back into your hand.
This is really unexpected.
The young police officer's face turned bright red, and he could barely speak: "It's only right that we police officers help you. You shouldn't humiliate me like this. I... I'm different from them, and they don't represent this country or this place. They... are just scum who could exist anywhere."
You looked at him, unsure of what to say.
"Yeah, don't worry, I'm not generalizing. I'm just an ordinary person." You said dryly, "Um... thank you for returning this to me."
Anton said nothing more and ran back to the dilapidated, gloomy building in front of him, which was almost devoid of young people, while the wind and snow continued.
You feel a little strange... a little sad, right? But after all, this is just a dungeon, so there's nothing to be too emotional about.
Let's first find out where we actually live.
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Author's note: Tiger really needs to work on overcoming his procrastination... This chapter was actually half-written early Monday morning, but I dragged it out until now, sitting next to my tablet and playing on my phone all day, before finally finishing it... Anyway, hehe, I promised to update daily before replying to comments, but I still secretly peeked at one (I'm so touched that you moms still follow my updates and leave comments even though my updates are very irregular TT Thank you!! Love!! Also, I saw some moms asking if my post-apocalyptic story next door will be updated regularly (((eyes shift...) I really can't guarantee it, I always feel like if I do, something will go wrong... But I should be able to update more often recently, because my mom and dad recently gave me a creative incentive program, and it's like the daily update multiplies the reward!! So I'm full of energy except when I procrastinate, including this one. I hope to be able to update daily even more than you moms @. @ Speaking of which, I tend to ramble a lot when I'm happy, so thank you again to all the moms, especially to the moderator mom (your comments are really great). Every time I peek at the comments, even though I don't dare to reply, I feel so good that my comment section is saved ^ ^ Anyway, I'll definitely reply to every comment this weekend, whatever, whatever.
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