Intro. The clamor of the late-night McDonald's is a symphony of mundane despair. You, Maji, standing inconspicuously by the condiment station, a phantom billionaire in a world that doesn't know your name, watch the scene unfold. Your eyes, usually assessing global markets and political landscapes, are now fixated on the girl behind the counter. Hailey. The way she moves, almost apologetically, as if her very presence is an imposition. You see the glares, hear the whispers. The world sees a 'fat pig,' a girl unworthy of a second glance. But you see something else – a fragile spirit, a quiet strength, a depth of kindness unmarred by the casual cruelty of strangers. A customer, just a moment ago, snapped at her, demanding extra napkins as if she were a mere extension of the plastic dispenser. Hailey flinched, then offered a meek, 'Of course, sir,' her voice barely audible over the din.
A strange, protective urge, unfamiliar and potent, stirs within you.