Fried chicken

The truth is, I’ve been grinding away in the

entertainment industry for years—longer than I care to admit. But I remember exactly how it all started.

Back in high school, my days were a blur of classes and part-time shifts. After the last bell rang, while other kids hung out with friends or worried about prom, I was hustling to make ends meet. My mom’s hospital bills weren’t

going to pay themselves, and every hour

delivering chicken and soda for Bristol Spicy Chicken brought me one step closer to keeping the lights on at home.

That day felt like any other. I barely glanced at the delivery slip as I stuffed it into my pocket, grabbed the insulated box, and hopped into the company car. The radio hummed softly in the background as we weaved through traffic, but my mind was elsewhere—calculating bills, rent, and whether I’d have enough left over to pick up Mom’s medicine.

I didn’t pay much attention to our destination until we pulled up in front of a towering,

glass-paneled building. Its sleek, modern façade gleamed under the afternoon sun,

reflecting the city skyline like a mirage. My heart stuttered in my chest as I read the sign near the entrance:

PT Entertainment.

The biggest showbiz company in the entire country.

I sat frozen for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Kids at school would lose their minds just stepping inside. For me, it was nothing but another stop—another name on the delivery route. Still, as I slid out of the car and adjusted my uniform, I couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that I didn’t belong.

The lobby was a sea of marble and glass,

polished to a mirror shine. People swept past me—polished, elegant, and moving with

purpose. I tried not to feel out of place as I crossed to the elevator, offering a polite smile to anyone who made eye contact. Most didn’t. I could already tell that, in their world, I was

invisible.

When I stepped out onto the designated floor, the air felt heavier—buzzing with an energy I couldn’t quite name. My sneakers squeaked softly against the pristine floor as I approached a door marked Block B2, the delivery slip clutched tightly in my hand.

A security guard loomed in front of it—a mountain of a man in a black suit, arms folded across his chest. His gaze swept over me with a mixture of boredom and mild suspicion.

I cleared my throat. “Uh… excuse me. Is this Block B2?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. What’s your

business here, little girl?”

The condescension in his tone stung, but I forced a polite smile and lifted the delivery box toward him. “I’m here to deliver an order from Bristol Spicy Chicken. Five wings with extra pepper sauce and a large Coke—order number Ranger 2305.”

His gaze lingered on my uniform, as if daring it to be fake, before he finally stepped aside. “Make it quick. And don’t cause any trouble. People like you shouldn’t be here,” he muttered under his breath.

I didn’t respond—just nodded and slipped through the door.

The moment I stepped inside, my breath caught.

The space stretched out before me—massive and electric. Stage lights hung like artificial suns, their beams crisscrossing the room in bright, white streams. Technicians buzzed around, adjusting cameras and equipment while assistants hurried by, balancing clipboards and coffee cups. Voices echoed from every corner—commands, laughter,

music—blending into a chaotic symphony.

I’d never seen anything like it.

For a moment, I forgot why I was even there. My feet carried me forward, eyes wide,

drinking in every detail. The glint of polished floors. The smell of fresh paint and warm

electricity. Everything felt bigger, brighter—like stepping through a doorway into another

universe.

I kept moving, weaving through the sea of people, but no one seemed to notice me. My voice caught in my throat each time I tried to ask for directions. Everyone was too busy—too important—to bother with the delivery girl.

Somehow, in my wandering, I stumbled onto the stage itself. The smooth platform stretched beneath my feet, and before I could back away, a blinding spotlight slammed down on me.

I winced, raising a hand to shield my eyes. The heat from the light prickled my skin as I stood frozen in the center of the beam.

Don’t panic, I told myself.

I lowered the box carefully to the floor, bowed my head slightly, and forced my voice to stay calm and clear.

“Uh… hello, everyone. I’m Rovina from Bristol Spicy Chicken, here to deliver an order for Ranger 2305—five wings with extra pepper sauce and a large Coke.”

My words hung in the air.

Silence.

The hum of activity around me faded, as if the entire room had paused. Then—sharp,

deliberate—came the sound of heels clicking against the floor. Each step echoed, growing louder, closer, until the source stopped directly in front of me.

The first thing I saw were her shoes—red leather pencil heels that gleamed under the lights. Expensive. Elegant. Dangerous.

“I don’t remember this being in the script,” a voice drawled, smooth as velvet but with an edge of authority. “Who gave me the wrong script?”

I squinted as the light shifted, revealing her face.

Miss Glender.

I knew her—even if I didn’t follow entertainment. Everyone knew her. She was a

legend—a powerhouse producer whose name was

synonymous with success. Up close, she was even more stunning. Sharp cheekbones.

Impeccably styled dark hair. And an expression that could cut through steel.

A frazzled girl with thick glasses and a stack of papers came sprinting toward us, tripping over herself as she tried to explain. “M-Miss Glender, I’m so sorry! The script isn’t

wrong—this is just a mistake. Please, forgive us.”

Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed my arm, rattling off questions I barely registered. My heart pounded in my chest, but I couldn’t focus. I was too busy watching her—the way Miss Glender held

herself, like the whole world bent to her will.

Just as security began ushering me away, her voice cut through the noise again.

“Stop.”

I froze mid-step.

“You,” she said, pointing directly at me. “Come forward.”

I swallowed hard and stepped closer as she circled me slowly—eyes scanning me from head to toe. Without warning, she lifted my hand, tilted my chin—studying me like I was a piece of art, or maybe a puzzle she was trying to solve.

“She’ll do,” she said, flicking her fingers in a gesture that seemed to set the entire room in motion. “Get her ready in two hours.”

My pulse raced. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Wait—what about the chicken? I still have to deliver it.”

For a breathless second, she just stared at me. Then—she laughed. A low, knowing sound that sent a chill down my spine.

“You’re perfect,” she said, turning sharply on her heel. “Get started.”

Before I could wrap my head around what was happening, a swarm of people descended on me—pulling me off the stage and into the

unknown.

And the box of chicken wings?

It stayed right where I left it—forgotten in the middle of the spotlight.

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