Noon sunlight scattered over the glass tables by the sidewalk, flickering like a restless metronome.  

Bix Kutra parked his scooter outside a fast-food joint and stepped in. The smell of oil and ketchup hit him—greasy, comforting, familiar. By the window, a friend was already waiting, a gray cap tilted back, grin ready before words. His name was **Ryan Floy**.

“You’re two minutes late,” Ryan said around a mouthful of burger. “What happened—traffic jam or another lost office tower?”

“Too many elevator buttons,” Bix replied, dropping into the chair. “Felt like playing a rhythm game.”  

They laughed. Their lunches were quick and unceremonious, wrappers crinkling like percussion.  

Conversation drifted from new delivery bonuses to the strangest customers they’d met: the man who ordered an iced Americano at midnight just to say “Wish my ex a happy birthday,” the woman who screamed at two scallions when she’d written *no scallion* in the notes.  

Ryan nearly choked on his fries. “Our job’s basically a citywide personality test. Every address hides a different kind of crazy.”

“What’s your record-breaker?” Bix asked.

“Guy ordered a cheese pizza—only cheese, no toppings. Then he yelled because it was ‘too plain.’ I told him to go buy a blank sheet of paper.”  

Ryan laughed so hard the table shook.

For a moment, the noise of the restaurant felt like real life—not survival, just life.  

Bix sipped his cola, staring out at the flow of pedestrians. For some, lunch was a pause; for others, it was just the midpoint of a long race.

Across the avenue, in a restaurant wrapped in quiet jazz and crystal light, **Lilia Quell** sat at a round table with three investors. The window framed half the skyline; champagne fizzed softly in tall glasses.  

Her tone was calm, elegant, precise—every sentence measured to sound effortless. When one man spoke too fast, she only smiled, and the entire table adjusted to her rhythm.

“The restructuring proposal for Juenhoo Fund will be ready by next week,” she said, slicing a sea-bass fillet cleanly in half. “We prefer flexibility in risk, not blind pursuit of yield.”

An older investor nodded. “You always find balance in the noise.”

She smiled faintly, neither agreeing nor denying. The silver fork reflected her fingers—no hesitation, no error.  

To her, business lunches were not indulgence but choreography: each word building trust, each gesture a quiet performance of control.

Same street, two different beats. The city’s heart pulsed in split time—one rhythm for survival, one for command.

When the meal ended, Bix crushed his burger wrapper into a ball and tossed it away.  

“That’s it for me,” he said, stretching. “If I don’t pick up a few more runs, I’ll be broke by Monday.”

“Man, gas stations should sponsor you,” Ryan snorted. “You basically live there.”

Bix grinned, pulling on his helmet. The delivery app was already blinking.  

He scrolled the list—office tower, flower shop, hospital. Then his eyes caught a familiar name:

**Mogudal Donuts — Two boxes, assorted.**

“Well, look who’s back,” he murmured, lips curling. The shop’s name always smelled like sugar and second chances. He tapped *accept*, kicked his scooter to life, and drove off.

By the time he reached the tower, the sky had turned the color of copper glass.  

He parked, straightened the strap of his bag, and entered the revolving door once more. The air changed again—cool, polished, smelling faintly of wax and roasted beans.  

The receptionist told him, “This customer’s waiting downstairs.”  

Turning, Bix spotted a man in a fitted suit pacing by the entrance, phone in hand. The man looked up sharply.  

“You the one from Mogudal Donuts?”

“Yes, sir. Just need to—”

The man snatched the boxes before Bix could finish, pulling cash from his pocket.  

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, tossing the bills across the counter.  

Bix blinked, trying to explain, but the man had already pried open a box.  

His face darkened. “Eight donuts—two should be chocolate. Why are they all plain and mixed glaze? What the hell is this?”

Before Bix could respond, the man turned on him.  

“You people can’t even read an order? Useless!”

Bix raised a hand carefully. “Sir, the mix comes from the shop, not me—”

“Don’t make excuses!” the man snapped, his voice cutting through the lobby.  

Heads turned. The scene froze under fluorescent light.

Then a calm voice intervened. “He’s just a delivery worker,” the woman said. “He didn’t bake your donuts.”

The man flinched.  

Through the parting crowd, Lilia Quell stepped forward, her expression cool but decisive.  

“If you have complaints, take them to Mogudal Donuts,” she continued. “Screaming in a lobby doesn’t fix pastry errors—and it certainly won’t help your firm’s image.”

Recognition flickered across the man’s face. “Director Quell—I, uh—”

“I know who you are,” she said evenly. “And I suggest you remember that people are watching.”

He shut his mouth, clutching the box, and walked off without another word.  

Bix stood frozen, the crumpled bills still in his hand. His pulse hadn’t quite caught up.  

“Thank you…” he said at last, almost uncertain.

Lilia glanced at him, her voice steady. “No need to thank me. Some things just need to be said.”  

Then she turned back toward the revolving doors, her stride measured and unhurried.

Bix watched her disappear into the reflection of the glass. The bills in his hand felt oddly light.  

He smiled faintly to himself.  

*Some people live inside schedules,* he thought. *Some of us just live.*