Chapter Text
Vision a little blurry and uniform a little warm, he fumbles with the buttons on the timer of the industrial sized oven, and the machine beeps irritably as Kiho enters the correct number of minutes this time for the buns. Rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes with the back of his wrist, he putters over to the large vats of oil, constantly bubbling and sizzling and raising the temperature of the air. All the yellow oil seems distasteful to him, and despite being an employee at this branch for nearly six months now, he has never once eaten any of KFC’s menu options. On a nearby counter is a cylindrical tiered cage, upon each tier, an even spread of chicken carcasses—breasts, thighs, and the works, pale, powdered, and ready to be lowered into the oil that pops and hisses. With some effort, he lifts the macabre birdcage and carries it to be fried in one of the perfectly sized oil vats. Perhaps it is the sleep deprivation from late nights reading law texts and early morning exams that makes him spaced out enough to stumble over himself and lose his grip on the metal cage. It falls clumsily into the swimming pool of molten lava, sending splashes of scalding oil upwards and towards his face.
Kiho flinches and snaps his eyes shut, but the anticipated painful burns never come, his skin somehow spared from the fryer’s lashes.
“Are you alright?”
“Huh?” When he opens his eyes, he is in the shadow of a tall, lithe figure. Her hard gaze makes him feel small, but he nearly jumps when he notices the woman’s arm and shoulder, now in between him and the fryer and streaked with hot oil. Kiho’s eyes widen in horror.
“Are you alright?” she asks again, voice deep and soothing, uncaring of the surely painful oil splash.
“Oh—I—I’m fine, thank you! But, your—“ He stumbles over his words now, as though his earlier clumsiness is not already bad enough. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry. You should run that under cold water—we should take you to the hospital—“ He is speaking a mile a minute with no breathing room in between his words.
The woman stares at him wordlessly, ghost-quiet. She tucks her arm away a little strangely so that most of it is hidden close behind herself. Her head dips slowly in a single nod, long blonde hair swaying. “I will do as you say,” she says then strides away, her steps as quiet as herself.
A young co-worker, Minji, suddenly rounds the corner, little bob of dark hair bouncing. “What happened?” she demands. “There’s oil everywhere.”
Kiho snaps to attention, bewildered. “Oh—I—I’m sorry; it was my fault. I accidentally dropped the chicken into the fryer—”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh, yes. But there was someone else—long blonde hair—she got burned.”
“The new hire!? Where is she? Where’s the first aid? Oh my g—“
“I am fine.”
The both of them jolt and turn to the voice. Minji immediately trots up to her. “Oh my god, Ragar!“ She stares pensively at the bandages wrapped neatly around her arm. “You should get that looked at by a doctor...”
“It is not as serious as you might suspect,” Ragar states, the calm and confidence in her voice somehow entirely convincing even if Kiho knows how severe the accident was. Ragar dips her head to tug at that strange black mask. “But if it worries you, I will visit a doctor once my shift is over—“
“No. I don’t care what you say; something like that is painful as fuck; I would know. You can’t expect to work for another five hours with oil burns all over your arm. Don’t worry; I’ll explain it all to the boss.”
Ragar stares at Minji with unreadable eyes. Seconds of heavy, considerable silence pass before she finally nods, conceding, even this simple gesture somehow imbued with an air of mystery. “Very well. I will call someone to pick me up.”
Minji huffs in bellicose approval, visibly satisfied and looking as though she tallies this exchange as a victory in her mind. “Good.”
Ten minutes later, Ragar reappears from somewhere unknowable to let them know of her leave before swiftly ducking out of the door.
Kiho straightens, suddenly more awake and alert than the endless amount of caffeine he consumes warrants him. “Just a moment!" He scrambles after Ragar through the door.
In the parking lot, there is already a shiny black Bentley waiting, engine purring, loud classical music spilling out of the rolled down window. In the driver’s seat is someone lounging with concentrated coolness, everything from the curl of his hair to the way he holds the steering wheel and taps his finger against it methodically embellishes his own gorgeousness. He hardly seems to notice anyone else, as though he believes only he himself deserves to be noticed in the world. It suddenly appears to Kiho that it is entirely correct for such a man to be the one picking up someone like Ragar.
Ragar is just about to yank open the passenger side door when she takes notice of Kiho and pauses.
“I just wanted to say, thank you. I hope you recover soon. And...I’m really sorry.”
Ragar regards him for a moment, and Kiho resists squirming under her intense gaze. She nods. “It is no trouble. I am glad you remain unharmed.” Then, she slips smoothly into the car, slams the door shut, and they drive away, leaving him in the dust.
Frankenstein smirks teasingly at him, eyes darting over to Ragar for a second or so before focusing again on the road ahead. “It’s your first day and you’ve already run into trouble.”
Ragar gives his friend an unamused look.
“So that kid was him?”
Ragar nods. “It would be shameful if I had allowed him to come to harm that I could easily prevent.” His fingers drift to the edges of the bandage to pull it apart. It unravels to reveal his perfect, unmarred skin underneath and falls into a coiled heap on his lap.
Frankenstein reaches forward to turn the music down. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you all of a sudden. It’s not like you need the money, not that such a job pays very much in the first place anyway. Of all places, a fast food restaurant?”
“Work needn’t be glamorous to be fulfilling, Frankenstein.” Ragar turns his head to the side and gazes out of the window, watching the various scenes pass them. Trees periodically punctuate the street. Two teens with black backpacks and bright hoodies scurry along the sidewalk, trailing perhaps a stray dog. A family isolated in their own vehicle drifts smoothly past; he can spot the cartoon “Pororo the Little Penguin” playing on the screen that flips down from the roof of the car.
“If that’s what you say...” Frankenstein sighs. His eyes again slip over to Ragar. “That uniform is hideous,” he remarks. “You look like a jester who got lost at a baseball game.”
Ragar does not deign this with a response.