RED

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.

Ugh. Pomi’s not on. She doesn’t stream on the weekends.

Red’s thumb flicked up the screen of his phone, his gaze locked on the endless feed in front of him. Thirty-second clips of chaos: war atrocities, partygoers dancing under neon lights, a prank where a boyfriend pretends to propose but ties his shoe instead, a city on fire, a chunky cat, families being torn apart by powers beyond them. Laughter, explosions, screaming, chuckles, giggles, and cries—he swiped through it all, numb to the barrage, until his thumb began to cramp. A text reminder of a remaining hospital bill for the month blipped on screen:

$477 DUE. $17537 BALANCE REMAINING.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and leaned his head back against the seat, his tired eyes peered through the black bangs covering his face.

Underground, the metro rail groaned around him, metal grinding on metal, but aside from that, silence. His car was empty, as it usually was at this hour of dawn in the lower parts of Ruam Mai City. The fluorescent lights above cast a cold, sterile glow, and his empty stare lingered on them, unblinking.

He gripped at his chest, frumpling the thick fabric of his stained gray hoodie within his palm.

———————

Tonight’s shift dragged on way too long. The incessant noise of the arcade, the same damn tunes repeating over and over again. Kids with oblivious parents, crying and screaming. Rowdy teens banging on machines. Adults gambling and smoking what little they have left on slots and pachinko machines. It was all the usual and yet—I feel so much more uncomfortable with myself—sitting here. I can’t shake this feeling away in my chest, this weight, it’s so hard to breathe, my nose is going to start bleeding again, if I don’t calm down—damn it.

Red shut his eyes and covered his bleeding nose with a rag he rummaged from his back pocket. He thought about his ten hour graveyard shift at the neon arcade over on Panam Street, within Hlum Lang District (Lower Pit), and imagined the little boy that had his palm and nose pressed up against the glass of a claw game. He couldn’t have been older than six. The boy was eyeing a stuffed bunny trapped inside the machine and slipped in two tokens into the slot giving him once chance to obtain it. With his little hand, the boy took hold of the joystick controlling the position of the claw. He positioned the claw right over the stuffed rabbit and slammed his little palm onto a giant red button promising to grab the prize. The three prongs of the claw latched onto the head of the bunny and began reeling, lifting the prize up. The boy’s eyes lit up with hope as he kept his hand pressed in place over the button and also squeezing the joystick tight. But just as that hope had risen up, the claw began to fail—a malfunction. The prongs dismantled from the base and the whole thing fell apart, sparking, and the stuffed bunny dropped back into its prison.

The boy’s eyes sunk to his feet, not a fuss or a peep. Red couldn’t stand the noise of children running around, crying, and yelling, but even then, he felt a pang inside his chest. It was expected to see the boy defeated by a machine rigged to fail—but not to malfunction so spectacularly in the way it did. He recognized the teenage girl consoling the boy, she and a few other children frequent the arcade every weekend or so.

I think her name is Nala.

Red’s boss was a hefty and burly man nicknamed Bank, he came by and inspected the machine on his knees, “Ya’broke it?!” He clambered standing back up and glaring down at the two. Nala placed her hands on the boys shoulder and glared back up at Bank, “He was going to win and it broke just as it was about to give us the win, you owe us.”

“I don’t owe you shit. Scram or I’ll call the police for breaking my property. That’s the best you’re going to get.” Bank replied.

Bank redirected his energy, turning to Red, “Hey kid! You just going to stand there? Come fix this thing, it’s broke’ again. What do I pay ya’for?” Red made his way over, clumsily, with his metal tool box clanking from the inside.

“Get this fixed before the end of your shift.” Bank said before leaving for his office on the other end of the arcade.

Rent had to be paid after all. The arcade was a relic, all flickering neon lights and stale air, filled with the smell of dust-covered circuitry and greasy snack wrappers. His job—an arcade maintenance operator—a fancy title for the handyman who attempted fixed everything within the arcade.

The machines were old and temperamental, like grumpy retirees who refused to cooperate. Tilted pin ball machines, rhythm games with broken buttons, and a token machine that spat out coins with all the enthusiasm of a malfunctioning ATM. But the worst, without a doubt, were the claw machines. They broke down constantly, and every customer thought they were owed a prize. Fixing them was a tedious ritual of wires, gears, replacing parts, and swearing under his breath.

His boss, Bank, was rarely seen, barely heard, and never helpful. Rumor had it he spent his time in the back “office” doing who-knows-what, probably solitaire or watching porn on some ancient computer. That left the arcade in Red’s hands, though “being a handyman” was a generous way to describe what he did. For the most part he drifted through the place like a shadow on the wall.

There was freedom in the aimlessness. He played games when he felt like it, stuffed his face with candy bars from the vending machine, and scrolled through videos on his phone when boredom gnawed too deep. Handy? Rarely. But nobody cared as long as the lights stayed on. Once in a while, he’d tune in to watch his favorite streamer, Pomi, even thinking about her made his heart skip a beat and the muscles of his cheeks push a smile.

The paycheck was barely enough to keep his messy life afloat, but it was comfortable. It was a dead-end job, sure—but it was his dead-end, and for now, that was enough.

Red knelt down with his tool box and opened up the machine. He felt the eyes of the boy and Nala watching him. “If you’re just going to stand there and stare, can you do it over there or something? I’m trying to get this thing fixed.” Red spoke, breaking the silence.

“You saw it didn’t you? The claw fell apart.” Nala mentioned.

Yeah, I did. Red turned his face, his eyes glancing over his shoulder, “So what?”

He was expecting her to reply with something like it’s not fair or it’s rigged, a scam. In a lot of ways it was a scam, but he was part of the system—operating and maintaining these machines to rig was his job. Still, to his surprise, Nala urged the little boy to give up and leave. To him it was the logical choice. Why fight against authority for very little in reward? But the little boy wouldn’t budge, he raised his hand and pointed at the stuffed bunny. Red turned back around, facing the machine, and the bunny that lay with his stuffed brethren. I don’t know why I did it, he’d later say to Bank in his office. Red pulled on the ears of the bunny—it came out of the machine, he then handed it to the boy.

“There, now leave me alone and don’t tell anyone. I need to get this thing ready for the next sucker that plays this thing.” Red muttered.

The little boy shook his head up and down, hugging tight his new fluffy friend, and turning away happily. Nala watched as the boy went to rejoin their small group of friends and without another word followed behind the boy. Red tinkered with the claw machine for a while, fixing the once dismantled claw in place, and testing it over and over again.

———————

Break time—Red took himself up the side stairwell, opening a door and wedging a brick so he wouldn’t lock himself out. On the roof of the single story arcade there wasn't much of a view, taller buildings surrounded him, blocking any sort of light from the night sky. He switched on an electronic lamp that rested on a large radiator. Red pulled out his phone and scrolled through videos upon videos, getting lost in information. At home, he did the same thing, scroll. Scrolling. Doom scroll. Whatever it took to drown out the voices of the world, he did it without thinking, slipping further into the numbing haze that kept reality at bay. Hunched beneath a fortress of crumpled sheets, he would lay in the stale shadows of his dark bedroom, the faint glow of his phone casting snippets of images within the reflection of his eye. The city's distant hum was muffled here, reduced to background static against the relentless stream of curated chaos on his screen.

His thumb moved on autopilot—endless swipes through flashy thumbnails and mindless videos, each one bleeding into the next until time lost meaning. Notifications blurred, and responsibilities wilted. At home, takeout bags piled in corners, greasy remnants shoved hastily under the bed. He didn’t care to clean until the smell was absolutely revolting; what was the point when he barely looked up from the glowing rectangle in his hand? His room usually smelled faintly of stale air and unopened windows—a cocoon of neglect against everything that waited beyond his door. The sheets tangled around his legs as he shifted slightly, eyes glassy but fixed on the next distraction. Anything to keep the world out.

Anything to disassociate.

I want to go home.

But he wasn’t home, he was at work and lunch was almost over. At least there was a parapet to lean on during his breaks and directly across the street there was a brightly lit convenience store, New Siam Liquor Shop. He looked up from his phone and saw a sea of mist and fog that blanketed the street below.

To his surprise, he caught Nala, the young boy, and a couple other children sitting on the curb just outside the liquor store slurping on some cup noodles. The prized stuffed bunny sat on the boy’s lap as if it was joining in on the meal. 2AM and those kids are still running around, he thought to himself rubbing the dark bags under his eyes.

Just then, he received a notification from FLICK.TV (a website for streamers: videogames, IRL, art, etc.) that Pomi was live, his heart skipped a beat. Red tuned in immediately, and he saw her deep blue hair was cut short into a bob length. She was smiling and twirling her hair, talking about how it was time for a new look.

Pomi? She’s on so late. Wow, her hair is so short now. It really does suit her. The chat is really blowing up, Should I say something? Maybe that it really suits her or something! Oh, she’s getting hundreds of messages like that.

“I won’t be on for long, OMG, I’m so sleepy! It’s already two in the morning?! I wanted to share the new look exclusively here with you guys before posting pics on the gram!” Pomi spoke directly into the camera, it was as if her eyes met Red’s, though he knew that idea was silly. A friend of hers appeared on the stream, commenting about how cute it was—they were together, presumably at one of their places. Pomi rarely does IRL streams even though they were always so successful on Utube, so something like this was a real treat for her fans. Red tapped his phone rapidly with his thumbs, typing up and adding to the sea of messages in the chat, “Love new look! It rlly suits u!”

“Aww thanks MangoRicePudding137!” Pomi perked up with a smile. Then a mod in the chat replied, “i said the samething. what givs.” Pomi replied, “I felt Mango was being genuine, duh!” Her and her mod were bantering for fun, they always did—but for Red, he was given a nickname. She called him Mango on a live stream. He couldn’t contain his excitement, his hands shook, and his head went down and then sprung up, he faced the sky with his phone held high. “Ooo-YAH!”

Red screenshotted the moment, the exchange of words in the chat, and her face to commemorate it all. Across the street, he saw the eyes of the children looking back at him. They were confused and scratching their heads. Red immediately ducked for cover, behind the parapet.

They must’ve heard me yell out. Cherish this moment, cherish this moment. Ignore them.

The stream ended shortly after, she waved goodnight to everyone and announced that she had plans for a new music album coming out. Red couldn't help but wave back to Pomi on the screen. He knew it was stupid, she was waving at everyone, but every time she’s live on stream—it made him feel normal. That life was normal and that Pomi was a friend he would talk to every now and then. He knew her fans probably felt some similar way, the pitfalls of parasocial relationships, and how streamers seemed to share so much about their lives through social media. That’s why Red never pushed it beyond a few messages here and there, he never wanted to come off as creepy. He just enjoyed her content, her music, and that she’s so-so-so beautiful.

The phone buzzed—a text from Bank, his boss. Meet me in the office.

Buzz kill, vibe kill, whatever—guess break time is over.

———————

Red sighed, already guessing what this was about. Bank had a habit of obsessively watching the security cameras, even though nothing ever happened at the arcade. I’ll just tell him to dock it from my paycheck, Red thought. It can’t be that big of a deal. He’ll get it—the kids were all over me, and I just needed to wrap up fixing the machine.

The “office” was in a unfinished part of the building, blocked off by tarp, it had been under construction for a little over two years with no end in sight. A dingy table, a metal cabinet, a scuffed rolling chair, and a desktop feeding live footage from the arcade floor existed within the open concrete room. A flickering light buzzed, casting harsh shadows.

Bank remained staring at the monitor when Red arrived, waving him in with a curt motion.

“Boss, I-”

“You gave the brat the bunny.” Bank said flatly, rising from his chair to face Red. He wasn’t much taller—maybe five-eight to scrawny Red’s five-five. But Bank was built like a bull, with thick forearms.

“You can take it out of my paycheck—” Red approached Bank.

Before Red could finish, Bank’s arm slammed into Red’s chest, driving him hard against the unfinished wall. The impact knocked over the metal file cabinet, sending a cascade of files and folders skidding onto the floor.

“I let you do whatever you want around here, and this is how you repay me?” Bank growled.

Red gasped for air, Bank’s thick forearm pressed heavily into his chest. His ribs ached under the crushing weight, and breathing became a struggle. He grit his teeth, toes barely touching the ground as he fought to stay upright. Panic blurred into pain, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

“P-please—” he choked out.

Bank reeled his arm back and let go. Red collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, spit trailing from his lips as he gagged for air.

“Look what you made me do,” Bank said, gesturing at the mess of papers scattered around them. “Clean it up.”

Wheezing, Red dropped to all fours, hands shaking as he scrambled to gather the scattered documents. His vision blurred as he attempted to gather up the files.

“Hurry up!” Bank barked.

Snapping back to focus, Red fumbled the papers sloppily together, handing them over, he noticed blood dripped from his nose to the floor.

“Jeez, kid,” Bank muttered, stuffing the files under his arm. “You’re bleeding on my floor. I didn’t even hit you that hard.” Just as Bank went to clap Red on the back, Red flinched—his face turned into his shoulder. Bank forced a laugh. “It’s like you said, I’ll just dock your paycheck. No harm, no foul. Water under the bridge, yeah? Yeah. You’re fine.”

Red said nothing, still coughing, heart pounding in his chest.

“Don’t do it again.” He said, solemnly.

“I’ll buy you noodles tomorrow. Yeah, we’re good.” With a firm nudge, he guided Red toward the tarp exit. “And don’t forget to take the trash out at the end of your shift!”

———————

Red sat motionless on the train. Anxiety crept up from his core, coiling around his throat. The fluorescent light above flickered and buzzed, sharp and erratic—the same way it had in Bank’s office. He stared at it, his pulse thudding in his temples. His thoughts blurred into a tangled mess, replaying the night on a loop. One minute it was just another dull shift; the next, it was... this. Whatever this was. Did I do something wrong? I did—didn’t I.

I always do, he thought.

Red’s mind swirled like dark water in a clogged drain, spiraling faster than he could manage. His breath hitched as the metro lurched to a halt. He squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough to wrinkle his lids, willing the world to reset when he opened them again.

Just one more stop, he reminded himself. After this, the rapid transport would finally emerge from the underground tunnels, spitting him out into a city drenched in the glow of a rising sun. But the rapid transport ceased to move on. An automated intercom message crackled. “We apologize for the inconvenience, we’ll be waiting here for approximately twenty minutes due to a minor delay in maintenance,” the robotic voice tinned, scratched, and detached.

Red wanted to erase the last bit of the shift—wipe it clean. The pain in his chest throbbed, a dull reminder of the blow that had landed too hard, too fast. His body ached, but it was the sting beneath the bruises that lingered, twisting deep into places he couldn’t quite reach.

He wanted to stop thinking and feeling.

So, he did what he always did—pulled out his phone and let the endless scroll consume him. Swipe. Video after video blurred past, bright and loud, filling the space between breaths. Faces laughing, music blasting, memes flashing faster than his thoughts could catch up. It was noise, glorious and numbing. He rarely went to Pomi’s page and only for new updates. He felt self-conscious about scrolling through her QuickGram profile, seeing her images and videos, he didn’t want to feel like a stalker or a creep, so he scrolled through endless amounts of reels—soon to be forgotten.

A single video caught his eye, he paused on it and watched—bright and poorly edited, with obnoxious text and graphics. A crudely animated chibi-like punching monkey with Muay Thai shorts and an eyepatch appeared on screen, yelling out the chance for money:

WIN 100K AND MORE!

Ugh. This is so ugly, it’s almost blinding. The monkey is kinda’cute. A new videogame?

FIGHT DIRTY and take part in an exciting UNDERGROUND BATTLE ROYALE that took the city of TOKYO by storm! Loads of winnings! The more viewers, the more the prize pool GROWS! MORE FAME, MORE MONEY, MORE WINNINGS!

I feel like battle royales are kind of dead, but 100K is a lot of money. I’d be able to quit and take care of my sis. They’re dropping loads of cash for this thing. I guess they’re trying to get popular streamers and utubers to join in and get many eyes on this mobile game or whatever it is, normal people never win these things. It doesn’t matter, not like I have time for a new game.

CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO JOIN NOW AND FIGHT TO WIN!

“Ahh. This is so stupid.”

Click.

Red entered his username—the same as it is on FLICK.TV.

A confirmation appeared on screen. The punching monkey, yelled, “The games begin midnight!” MANGORICEPUDDING137, THANKS FOR JOINING! WE’RE SO THRILLED TO HAVE YOU AND REMEMBER TO FIGHT DIRTY, WA-CHA!