The bar smelled like stale beer and regret. Liquor bottles lined the shelves like trophies of lost battles, their glassy reflections dancing under the flickering neon sign. Ren wiped down the counter with one hand, his other hand working a Rubik’s Cube beneath the bar, hidden from sight. His fingers trembled slightly as they twisted the cube in rapid succession, each movement a careful risk. One wrong move—not on the cube, but in getting caught—and his boss would make sure he never brought it here again. He didn’t need to look. He knew the patterns by heart—the cross, the F2L, the last-layer algorithms. The click-click-click of the cube was barely audible under the clatter of empty glasses and the slurred conversations of customers who barely noticed him. But Ren noticed everything—the way his boss’s reflection lingered in the bar mirror, the way his coworker’s footsteps approached before turning away. He had seconds, maybe less, before someone paid attention. A shadow shifted in the corner of his eye. “Ren!” The bark of his name sent a jolt through his spine. His fingers spasmed, nearly fumbling the cube, heart hammering as he shoved it deeper into his pocket. His stomach clenched. His boss’s eyes locked onto him, dark and scrutinizing, a sneer curling at the edge of his lips like he already knew the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. “You deaf?” The man leaned against the bar, his presence heavy, reeking of stale cigarettes and sweat. His jaw tightened as he exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. “Glass ain’t gonna clean itself.” Ren snatched a dirty glass so fast he nearly knocked over a bottle. His palms were slick with sweat, breath shallow, his heart a frantic drumbeat in his ears. He scrubbed aggressively, nodding, acting like his entire focus had been on work. The cube pressed against his ribs in his pocket, burning like a hidden ember, a reminder of how close he’d come to screwing up. Jack, the trucker, let out a rough chuckle from his stool, his whiskey glass dangling lazily between calloused fingers. “Told you, kid. That thing’s got your brain rotted.” His bloodshot eyes scanned Ren with a smirk, amused at his discomfort. Ren forced a smirk back, but it felt stiff, unnatural. “Nah,” he muttered, voice thin, “just keeps me awake.” His boss lingered, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. His tongue ran over his teeth, as if tasting a lie. Ren held his breath. One more second. Two. His throat tightened.  Then, finally, the man grunted, shaking his head. He turned away, barking at another employee about restocking the whiskey. Ren’s shoulders slumped, but the tension coiled in his muscles refused to ease. His pulse pounded, a restless energy surging beneath his skin. His fingers twitched with the urge to cube, to push the time lower, to shave off another fraction of a second—to take control of something, anything. But he couldn’t risk it. Not here. Not yet. His mind drifted to the tournament he couldn’t afford, the record he couldn’t chase, the dream he had to keep buried beneath the weight of reality. In his pocket, the cube waited. Scrambled. Like him. *** In this world all he was ever doing was survive and this is a story which has been inspired by one my dearest friend whom the author calls anam cara, and is loosely based on his life. a person who has been entangled in between his bloodline and his very own dream, it's a satire on society and an eye-opening story. please do read this story...