Post by Khloe on Oct 29, 2024 11:22:13 GMT -5
Khloe had never been one for vacations, but breakfast at a cozy, dim-lit diner on the corner of Elm and 5th was about as close to time off as she ever got. The rain had stopped for once, leaving the streets shining under the pale morning light, and the soft hum of neon from the sign outside gave the place a warm glow. She had picked the booth in the back, far from the chatter of the other patrons, where the coffee was always hot, and the world couldn’t reach her.
She sipped from the chipped ceramic mug, feeling the comforting warmth spread through her fingers. The aroma of strong, bitter coffee mingled with the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen. She let herself relax for once, settling into the padded seat, her senses dulled by the familiar, comforting surroundings. The weight of her recent cases had lifted, if only for a moment.
She let herself enjoy it—the steam rising from the plate in front of her, the clink of utensils, the anonymity of a slow Tuesday morning in a corner diner where nobody knew her name.
But then she saw the waitress.
Blonde, mid-30s, with eyes that were far too wide for someone who was just delivering pancakes. She moved through the tables like she owned the joint, chin up and steps exaggerated, as if she were parading down a catwalk instead of weaving between worn-out seats. She was muttering something under her breath, something Khloe couldn’t quite catch, but whatever it was, it had the reckless energy of someone convinced they were saying something profound.
Khloe watched as the woman zeroed in on her, cutting a line straight through the restaurant. The waitress’s too-bright smile twitched as she reached the booth, and she dropped a greasy menu onto the table with a flourish, like she was bestowing a gift on royalty. Khloe didn’t even look up, still focused on her coffee.
“Another case, huh?” the waitress said, too loudly. Khloe’s eyes flickered up, momentarily startled. “Yeah, I can see it. You’re one of those tough types, right? The kind who thinks she’s seen it all.”
Khloe said nothing, just raised an eyebrow as if to ask what the hell she was on about. She was off the clock, and if this woman had any sense, she’d see the invisible wall between them and leave Khloe to her breakfast. But the waitress, apparently, lacked both sense and boundaries.
“I know your type,” the waitress said, plopping herself down across from Khloe without invitation. “You’re here because you’re hiding, right? Hiding from some big, bad thing out there in the world. But not me.” Her eyes gleamed with a kind of manic pride. “No, I’m gonna make it big. This?” She gestured around the worn-out diner, with its stained floors and chipped countertops. “This is just temporary. Just you wait, I’m gonna be something. I’m gonna be someone.”
Khloe felt the familiar twinge of irritation creep up her spine. This woman was tearing apart the calm she’d carved out for herself, ripping away the quiet moment she’d earned. She tried to tune out the waitress’s rambling, focusing instead on the steam rising from her eggs.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” the waitress continued, undeterred by Khloe’s silence. “You think I’m just another nobody, don’t you? Just another face in the crowd, doing nothing, going nowhere. But I’m different, you’ll see. I’m not like the others.”
Khloe let out a long, slow breath, setting her fork down gently on the edge of her plate. She reached for her notepad—the same one she always carried, though she hated to use it when she wasn’t working. With a few swift motions, she scribbled out a single word: Breakfast.
She tapped the word twice, hoping the waitress would get the hint. But the woman only laughed, waving her hand dismissively.
“Oh, come on. You don’t have to play coy with me. I know your type.” Her tone grew conspiratorial, her voice dropping as if sharing some great secret. “You’re looking for something, aren’t you? Some kind of purpose. That’s why you’re here, right? To find it?”
Khloe’s patience wore thin. She pushed the plate away, the eggs growing cold and unappetizing. Whatever this woman’s delusions were, they were not her problem, not today. She picked up the mug of coffee and drained it, feeling the bitter taste slide down her throat. It was time to go.
She reached for her wallet, flipping it open, pulling out a few crumpled bills. But the waitress grabbed her wrist before she could put the money down, her grip surprisingly firm.
“No,” the woman said, her eyes wide and frantic, locking onto Khloe’s with a kind of feverish desperation. “Listen to me. I’m serious. I’m destined for something great, and you’re gonna wish you’d listened when I’m famous. I’m the next big thing.”
Khloe met her gaze for a moment, feeling the intensity of whatever madness lay behind those eyes. There was a time, maybe, when she would’ve felt a twinge of pity, a moment of sympathy for someone so clearly lost in her own fantasy. But that time had passed. She’d seen too much, lost too much, and the edges of her patience were razor-thin.
With deliberate calm, Khloe pulled her arm free, placing the money on the table and turning toward the door. The air in the diner had grown suffocating, and she needed the cool clarity of the outside world. She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the rain-dampened sidewalk, letting the door swing shut behind her.
The waitress called after her, shouting something about “destiny” and “missed opportunities,” but Khloe was already halfway down the block, the words swallowed by the hum of traffic and the muffled buzz of the city coming back to life. She kept walking, letting the sounds of the street drown out the woman’s voice, until it was just another noise lost in the city’s endless murmur.
Khloe didn’t look back.
The lot is silent, save for the hum of streetlights overhead casting dim shadows across the cracked pavement. Khloe stands alone, her figure a quiet silhouette in the gloom. She holds a stack of cards in her hand, one lifted, her gaze fixed and cold, each card a silent weapon aimed straight at Brooke Hernandez, the so-called “Dictator.”
Khloe flips the first card up, letting the words linger in the air, even in their silence.
“Dictator?”
She drops the card, watching it drift to the ground like a fallen leaf, her expression unmoved. Brooke’s title, the bravado—none of it impresses her. It’s all for show. She raises the next card, her face unreadable, but her eyes sharp.
“You’re no leader, Brooke. Just a loudmouth who can’t stand being ignored.”
The card flutters to join the first, discarded and forgotten. In Khloe’s mind, Brooke isn’t an obstacle, not even a hurdle—she’s just noise. The next card comes up, her hand steady.
“Real power doesn’t have to shout. It’s quiet, like this.”
Another drop, another message sent. Khloe doesn’t need to yell or boast. The silence is her strength, and Brooke? She’s just another inflated ego waiting to be burst. A new card rises in her hand, each one digging a little deeper.
“You’re not a threat, Brooke. Just a chapter I’ll close.”
The card lands softly on the growing pile at her feet. Brooke’s attempts at intimidation, the taunts, the bravado—they’re nothing but blips, distractions. Khloe’s eyes narrow as she raises the next card, her silent message clear.
“You want me to quit? I’ve got news for you.”
She drops the card, dismissing Brooke’s challenge as quickly as she dismissed her title. Khloe’s never been one to bend, let alone break. Another card comes up, her fingers tight around it.
“I don’t quit. But you will, Brooke. You’ll be begging.”
The card falls with a finality that mirrors Khloe’s unshakable resolve. This match, this challenge—it’s just another chance to silence the noise Brooke so desperately tries to create. Another card appears in her hand.
“Your reign ends here.”
She lets it slip from her grasp, hitting the ground softly, yet it feels like a hammer blow in the cold night. Brooke can play “Dictator” all she wants, but Khloe is here to strip away the act and leave only the truth behind. Another card follows, her silence heavier with each one.
“Behind all the shouting, there’s nothing.”
Her stare is steady, a force of its own, a resolve that doesn’t waver or weaken. Brooke is used to being loud, to being feared. But Khloe’s silence is stronger, more unyielding. Another card drops, her next one already held high:
“You’ll be done before you even realize what hit you.”
She’s not here to entertain Brooke’s fantasies of control. She’s here to dismantle them. The next card comes up, the words like a final nail.
“This ends with you on the ground, wishing you’d never started.”
Her movements are smooth, methodical, as the next card slides into her grip, her unspoken message a declaration of certainty.
“Prepare to be silenced.”
The last card falls, joining the rest in a scattered stack at her feet. Khloe turns, her gaze catching on a torn flyer stapled to a street pole, Brooke’s face staring out from it, plastered with slogans and declarations of her so-called dominance. Khloe’s stare holds, unwavering, as if her silence alone could erase Brooke’s very existence from that poster.
She turns, leaving the cards, leaving the noise, ready to let her silence swallow Brooke’s final words whole. And when they meet in the ring, there will be only one voice left.
She sipped from the chipped ceramic mug, feeling the comforting warmth spread through her fingers. The aroma of strong, bitter coffee mingled with the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen. She let herself relax for once, settling into the padded seat, her senses dulled by the familiar, comforting surroundings. The weight of her recent cases had lifted, if only for a moment.
She let herself enjoy it—the steam rising from the plate in front of her, the clink of utensils, the anonymity of a slow Tuesday morning in a corner diner where nobody knew her name.
But then she saw the waitress.
Blonde, mid-30s, with eyes that were far too wide for someone who was just delivering pancakes. She moved through the tables like she owned the joint, chin up and steps exaggerated, as if she were parading down a catwalk instead of weaving between worn-out seats. She was muttering something under her breath, something Khloe couldn’t quite catch, but whatever it was, it had the reckless energy of someone convinced they were saying something profound.
Khloe watched as the woman zeroed in on her, cutting a line straight through the restaurant. The waitress’s too-bright smile twitched as she reached the booth, and she dropped a greasy menu onto the table with a flourish, like she was bestowing a gift on royalty. Khloe didn’t even look up, still focused on her coffee.
“Another case, huh?” the waitress said, too loudly. Khloe’s eyes flickered up, momentarily startled. “Yeah, I can see it. You’re one of those tough types, right? The kind who thinks she’s seen it all.”
Khloe said nothing, just raised an eyebrow as if to ask what the hell she was on about. She was off the clock, and if this woman had any sense, she’d see the invisible wall between them and leave Khloe to her breakfast. But the waitress, apparently, lacked both sense and boundaries.
“I know your type,” the waitress said, plopping herself down across from Khloe without invitation. “You’re here because you’re hiding, right? Hiding from some big, bad thing out there in the world. But not me.” Her eyes gleamed with a kind of manic pride. “No, I’m gonna make it big. This?” She gestured around the worn-out diner, with its stained floors and chipped countertops. “This is just temporary. Just you wait, I’m gonna be something. I’m gonna be someone.”
Khloe felt the familiar twinge of irritation creep up her spine. This woman was tearing apart the calm she’d carved out for herself, ripping away the quiet moment she’d earned. She tried to tune out the waitress’s rambling, focusing instead on the steam rising from her eggs.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” the waitress continued, undeterred by Khloe’s silence. “You think I’m just another nobody, don’t you? Just another face in the crowd, doing nothing, going nowhere. But I’m different, you’ll see. I’m not like the others.”
Khloe let out a long, slow breath, setting her fork down gently on the edge of her plate. She reached for her notepad—the same one she always carried, though she hated to use it when she wasn’t working. With a few swift motions, she scribbled out a single word: Breakfast.
She tapped the word twice, hoping the waitress would get the hint. But the woman only laughed, waving her hand dismissively.
“Oh, come on. You don’t have to play coy with me. I know your type.” Her tone grew conspiratorial, her voice dropping as if sharing some great secret. “You’re looking for something, aren’t you? Some kind of purpose. That’s why you’re here, right? To find it?”
Khloe’s patience wore thin. She pushed the plate away, the eggs growing cold and unappetizing. Whatever this woman’s delusions were, they were not her problem, not today. She picked up the mug of coffee and drained it, feeling the bitter taste slide down her throat. It was time to go.
She reached for her wallet, flipping it open, pulling out a few crumpled bills. But the waitress grabbed her wrist before she could put the money down, her grip surprisingly firm.
“No,” the woman said, her eyes wide and frantic, locking onto Khloe’s with a kind of feverish desperation. “Listen to me. I’m serious. I’m destined for something great, and you’re gonna wish you’d listened when I’m famous. I’m the next big thing.”
Khloe met her gaze for a moment, feeling the intensity of whatever madness lay behind those eyes. There was a time, maybe, when she would’ve felt a twinge of pity, a moment of sympathy for someone so clearly lost in her own fantasy. But that time had passed. She’d seen too much, lost too much, and the edges of her patience were razor-thin.
With deliberate calm, Khloe pulled her arm free, placing the money on the table and turning toward the door. The air in the diner had grown suffocating, and she needed the cool clarity of the outside world. She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the rain-dampened sidewalk, letting the door swing shut behind her.
The waitress called after her, shouting something about “destiny” and “missed opportunities,” but Khloe was already halfway down the block, the words swallowed by the hum of traffic and the muffled buzz of the city coming back to life. She kept walking, letting the sounds of the street drown out the woman’s voice, until it was just another noise lost in the city’s endless murmur.
Khloe didn’t look back.
The lot is silent, save for the hum of streetlights overhead casting dim shadows across the cracked pavement. Khloe stands alone, her figure a quiet silhouette in the gloom. She holds a stack of cards in her hand, one lifted, her gaze fixed and cold, each card a silent weapon aimed straight at Brooke Hernandez, the so-called “Dictator.”
Khloe flips the first card up, letting the words linger in the air, even in their silence.
“Dictator?”
She drops the card, watching it drift to the ground like a fallen leaf, her expression unmoved. Brooke’s title, the bravado—none of it impresses her. It’s all for show. She raises the next card, her face unreadable, but her eyes sharp.
“You’re no leader, Brooke. Just a loudmouth who can’t stand being ignored.”
The card flutters to join the first, discarded and forgotten. In Khloe’s mind, Brooke isn’t an obstacle, not even a hurdle—she’s just noise. The next card comes up, her hand steady.
“Real power doesn’t have to shout. It’s quiet, like this.”
Another drop, another message sent. Khloe doesn’t need to yell or boast. The silence is her strength, and Brooke? She’s just another inflated ego waiting to be burst. A new card rises in her hand, each one digging a little deeper.
“You’re not a threat, Brooke. Just a chapter I’ll close.”
The card lands softly on the growing pile at her feet. Brooke’s attempts at intimidation, the taunts, the bravado—they’re nothing but blips, distractions. Khloe’s eyes narrow as she raises the next card, her silent message clear.
“You want me to quit? I’ve got news for you.”
She drops the card, dismissing Brooke’s challenge as quickly as she dismissed her title. Khloe’s never been one to bend, let alone break. Another card comes up, her fingers tight around it.
“I don’t quit. But you will, Brooke. You’ll be begging.”
The card falls with a finality that mirrors Khloe’s unshakable resolve. This match, this challenge—it’s just another chance to silence the noise Brooke so desperately tries to create. Another card appears in her hand.
“Your reign ends here.”
She lets it slip from her grasp, hitting the ground softly, yet it feels like a hammer blow in the cold night. Brooke can play “Dictator” all she wants, but Khloe is here to strip away the act and leave only the truth behind. Another card follows, her silence heavier with each one.
“Behind all the shouting, there’s nothing.”
Her stare is steady, a force of its own, a resolve that doesn’t waver or weaken. Brooke is used to being loud, to being feared. But Khloe’s silence is stronger, more unyielding. Another card drops, her next one already held high:
“You’ll be done before you even realize what hit you.”
She’s not here to entertain Brooke’s fantasies of control. She’s here to dismantle them. The next card comes up, the words like a final nail.
“This ends with you on the ground, wishing you’d never started.”
Her movements are smooth, methodical, as the next card slides into her grip, her unspoken message a declaration of certainty.
“Prepare to be silenced.”
The last card falls, joining the rest in a scattered stack at her feet. Khloe turns, her gaze catching on a torn flyer stapled to a street pole, Brooke’s face staring out from it, plastered with slogans and declarations of her so-called dominance. Khloe’s stare holds, unwavering, as if her silence alone could erase Brooke’s very existence from that poster.
She turns, leaving the cards, leaving the noise, ready to let her silence swallow Brooke’s final words whole. And when they meet in the ring, there will be only one voice left.
