Przemek rummaged through the fridge, searching for a ham and cheese sandwich—the only one he liked. Unfortunately, there were none. Despite the abundance of tuna sandwiches, he decided to settle for an iced coffee and a Red Bull. If he couldn’t find a ham and cheese sandwich elsewhere, this would have to do for breakfast. With his choices made, he walked to the cashier and glanced outside.

His colleague, Brajan, was standing next to the van, still on the phone with their boss. Their boss had just signed a significant contract with the European Union Reconstruction Fund. The job was in Leipzig, working on a massive new train logistics hub designed to connect Eastern Europe’s railroads to Western Europe. It was a huge deal—companies would kill for a contract like this—so their boss had been hounding them to get there on time. Of course, the boss himself wasn’t coming. He claimed he had to meet a “potential client,” but Przemek knew better. The guy was in Greece, honeymooning with his new wife.

Przemek shook his head. It was just how things were. He’d been working for this guy on and off for two or three years, juggling jobs with other bosses and hopping from one construction project to another. Welding was his trade, a skill he’d learned in the army, but by now he did just about anything that didn’t require too much specialization. It was tough, physically demanding work, and the hours were worse—ten-hour days, sometimes six days a week, especially during busy projects.

He wanted more stability. He dreamed of landing a full-time welding gig, something steady, something nine-to-five. He was tired of dead-end construction jobs and cycling through girlfriends every six months. Life after the military was supposed to be simpler, but somehow, it had only gotten busier.

At the cashier, Przemek set his drinks down and pointed at one of the disposable e-cigarettes. He’d been trying to quit regular cigarettes, despite the jokes from his colleagues about his new habit. Przemek didn’t care. He hesitated for a moment, trying to recall the German word for "watermelon," before giving up and saying it in Yiddish. The cashier didn’t understand, offering him a polite smile before finally finding the right flavor.

“Sorry about that,” she said with a smile.

“Don’t worry about it, kochanie,” Przemek replied, returning the smile. He paid for everything and was startled by a loud honk as he picked up his bag. For a moment, he was ready to curse at Brajan for honking, but Brajan was still leaning against the van, phone in hand. The honk had come from a truck at the nearby pump.

HONK. Another one.

Przemek frowned and asked the cashier, “What’s his problem?”

She sighed. “That guy came in two hours ago, pale as a sheet. He asked for painkillers, but I told him we didn’t have any and that he couldn’t park here. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I gave him something from our breakroom. He’s been sitting in his truck ever since. I called my boss, but he said to call the cops. When I did, the cops told me they couldn’t send anyone this far out unless it was an emergency.”

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She jumped slightly as the truck honked again, then laughed nervously.

Przemek wasn’t in the mood for this. He thanked her, grabbed his bag, and walked outside. “Did you do something?” he asked Brajan.

Brajan, still on the phone, just shrugged.

Przemek sighed, tossed his bag into the van, and approached the truck. Both Brajan and the cashier watched him as he knocked on the driver’s door. There was no response, just another honk. He couldn’t see the driver clearly, and a part of him feared it might be a medical emergency. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. Circling around the front, he heard the door suddenly creak open.

The truck driver stepped out. He was shirtless, wearing only his underwear, and drenched in sweat. Brajan stared at him in bewilderment, putting his phone into his pocket. The man stopped a few meters away, gripping a metal bar—likely part of a car jack.

“Too warm inside?” Przemek asked awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah" the man uttered.

He turned and looked at him under the harsh gas station lights. His body was covered in scars and pockmarks, but it was his eyes that made Przemek’s stomach drop. Most of the man’s eyes were crimson red.  The primal part of Przemek’s brain screamed fight or flight.

“Drop that bar, okay?” Przemek said, trying to sound firm.

Behind him, Brajan extended his telescopic baton with a sharp snap. Brajan always boasted about it, and now he might get to finally use it. The sound set the truck driver off. He lunged at Brajan, swinging the metal bar. The strike hit Brajan’s hand, causing him to drop the baton and stumble back, yelling in pain.

“KURWA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Brajan shouted.

Przemek didn’t think. He tackled the truck driver from behind, and they both crashed to the ground. The driver struggled fiercely, swinging the bar. Przemek barely managed to block the blow, yelling, “CALM DOWN!”

The man stared at him again with those red, burning eyes, and Przemek’s resolve wavered. His instincts screamed to get away, but he couldn’t let the guy up—not with that bar in hand. Suddenly, the driver grabbed Przemek’s hand and squeezed as they wrestled on the ground. The pain was excruciating, like his bones might shatter.

“BRAJAN!” Przemek yelled.

Brajan appeared from the side and delivered a swift kick to the man’s face. The truck driver went limp, releasing Przemek’s hand. Gasping for air, Przemek dragged himself away.

“You good?” he asked Brajan in Polish.

“He broke my hand, man,” Brajan groaned, cradling his hand.

Przemek stood, grabbed the metal bar, and threw it away. The cashier had come outside, but before she could speak, Przemek shouted, “Get back inside, lock the door, and call the police. Not your boss—the police!”

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Przemek responded with a thumbs-up. His own hand was bruised, but otherwise fine. Brajan, though, looked worse off.

As he knelt to check on Brajan, the truck driver began to stir. Przemek grabbed the baton from the ground. “Stay down!” he yelled.

The man ignored him, struggling to his feet. Przemek struck him in the knee with the baton. The knee buckled, and the man collapsed again. There was no scream, no groan—just that eerie black stare.

Przemek’s heart pounded as he braced for what was coming next.