THE TROUBLEMAKER
CHAPTER ONE
A premonition of chaos jolted Serena from sleep as her alarm shrieked its morning assault. Sleep clung to her eyelids like cobwebs, a residue of her anxiety-laced night. The knowledge of a looming "big day" at work gnawed at her gut, twisting sleep into restlessness.
She bolted from bed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud that echoed the turmoil in her chest. Every muscle in her body tensed, propelled by the invisible hand of urgency. The bathroom became a whirlwind of activity. The shower hissed awake, steam coiling around her like a nervous shroud, unable to wash away the prickling tension.
She quickly got dressed and headed to the kitchen to make herself some breakfast. But as she opened the refrigerator, she got a call from her friend Emily and quickly picked it.
"Hello, I am late for work. I will call you when I get to the office. '' Serena stops her from her discussion , she quickly ends the call and quickly takes out sliced bread to toast it with a toasting machine.
Her morning routine became a frantic ballet, a desperate attempt to outrun the clock. Toast popped from the toaster like impatient dancers, while tea brewed a bitter symphony of haste. Each tick of the clock was a mocking drumbeat, reminding her of the battle already lost.
A predatory text from her boss slithered into her phone screen: "Serena, you're late again. I need you in the office by 8:30 sharp. Don't be late again." The familiar sting of reprimand pricked her eyes, adding fuel to the fire of her panic.
Emerging from the shower, she found her reflection a tangled mess, mirroring the chaos within. With a grimace, she attacked her hair with a brush, each stroke adding to the unruly snarl. Frustration, a simmering pot threatening to boil over, finally erupted. The brush clattered across the room, a silent scream of surrender.
"This is not my day," she muttered, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth. Yet, she pressed on, a marionette dancing to the puppet strings of obligation. Hunger gnawed at her, but breakfast was devoured in a single, hurried gulp. With a phone gripped like a talisman, she launched herself into the city's morning crush, praying for a taxi to materialize like a genie from a bottle.
The office doors felt like the gates of purgatory as she stumbled through, a breathless apology already forming on her lips. Her boss, a grim reaper in a suit, halted his march towards his lair.
"Late again," he intoned, his voice dripping with glacial disapproval.
"My apologies, sir," Serena stammered, a web of excuses tangled in her throat. "Traffic—"
He cut her off with a withering glance. "The other time was 'riots in your street'? This time, traffic? Serena, are you playing roulette with your job?"
Panic flashed in her eyes, briefly extinguishing the flicker of defiance. "No, sir! I just… I fear losing my job."
A humorless smile played on his lips. "Fear not, Serena. That outcome seems inevitable."
Before she could plead or bargain, he turned away, leaving her stranded in the echo of his words. A desperate plea clawed its way up her throat: "Sir, just one more chance! I'll work twice as hard!"
He paused, his back to her a wall of unyielding stone. "If you must follow me, Serena, at least bring work ethic with you. There's plenty to be done."
Hope, a fragile sprout, tentatively pushed through the cracks of despair. "No, sir. I meant… I don't need more work. I need to start doing the work I have right."