Chapter 6 :Brutal Backstory, A Lore Of Betrayal
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The sun rose like it owed someone money, Like me.
It didn’t glide gently across the sky. It *jumped*, like a sitcom character leaping out from behind the curtains with jazz hands and a badly timed “TA-DA!”
Birds chirped off-key.
One squirrel did a backflip off my balcony, nded in a trash bin, and didn’t come back up.
It was Tuesday.
And for the first time in six weeks, I was still in the house at 9:00 AM.
I blinked at the ceiling.
Silence.
No grunts. No moans. No bedframe repeatedly tapping the wall in morse code.
“Am I… free?” I whispered.
No boyfriend.
No boots by the door.
No cologne cloud suffocating the hallway.
I sat up slowly, like a man waking from a curse.
Could it be? Did he finally leave her?
Did Chadriguez finally ride off into the sunset with a new victim? Did his motorcycle crash into a canyon and explode in slow motion?
A grin spread across my face.
“I’m the man of the house again.”
I got out of bed.
Took a real shower.
Dried off with the non-wet towel for once.
Ate cereal with *actual milk*, not leftover oat sludge.
By 10:00 AM, I was dancing in the kitchen to 2000s boy band hits and pretending the mop was my sword again.
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**DING-DONG.**
I froze mid-spin.
The spoon in my hand dropped in slow motion.
I tiptoed to the peephole.
There he stood.
Chadriguez.
Perfect stubble. Tank top. Smug smirk. Motorcycle helmet dangling from one finger like it was a fashion accessory.
He rang the bell again, slower this time.
**DING.**
**DONG.**
I whispered, “No.”
**DING.**
**DONG.**
“NO!”
I flung the door open. “You weren’t coming today!”
He shrugged. “I got stuck in traffic. But I always come… eventually.”
I gagged.
“Pack your little backpack, buddy,” he said. “It’s game time.”
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Five minutes ter, I was standing on the front porch in a T-shirt, shorts, and shame.
A pstic bag with one sandwich voucher and an empty water bottle dangled from my wrist.
He smmed the door behind me and yelled, “Try not to cry on the neighbor’s cat again!”
I didn’t cry st time.
I *sobbed*.
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I walked aimlessly for a while, sitting on a bench under a tree that offered just enough shade to be ironic.
A pigeon crapped two feet from my shoe like it was warning me.
I looked at the camera.
There was no camera.
But I looked anyway.
“…Fine,” I muttered. “I guess I’ll expin everything now. It’s already chapter 6.”
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**Backstory Time.**
Once upon a time, I was a guy with dreams.
A part-time graphic designer. A full-time online game moderator. Life was simple. I had a PC, a pnt, and a fiancée who ughed at my jokes—even the ones about raccoons running pyramid schemes.
Then she met *him*.
Chadriguez.
6’4. Motorcycle. Triceps that looked like they could crush walnuts and probably once did.
He showed up at her kickboxing css and kicked *everyone’s* box.
They fell in love instantly.
I thought I’d be kicked to the curb, but no.
Instead, they called me into the living room one Thursday night.
My girl—fiancée at the time—was holding hands with Chadriguez like he was her second coming of financial security.
“Listen,” she said. “We want to be honest.”
“I’m ready,” I said. I wasn’t.
“Chadriguez is a rich young master.”
That got my attention.
“His family owns TechnovaCorp.”
That made me blink.
TechnovaCorp?
The same company I worked at?
No—*used* to work at.
Because a week after she met him, TechnovaCorp id off its entire creative team. My department. Me.
That was no coincidence.
They wanted me to need him.
And I did.
They paid off my debts. Bought groceries. Paid rent.
Then they dropped the kicker.
“We want a formal agreement,” Chadriguez said, sipping imported water from a gss shaped like a skull.
“Every Tuesday,” she said, eyes sparkling. “You leave the house. We… spend time.”
“Consensual. Legal. Beneficial,” he added.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Then opened it again because I remembered I needed to breathe.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
They both nodded.
She held out a printed document: *“Tuesday Usage Agreement (Version 3.1)”*
It had bullet points.
* I would vacate the house every Tuesday from 9:00 AM to 11:00 PM.
* They would not disturb me the rest of the week.
* I would receive a weekly allowance in the form of prepaid supermarket vouchers and free Wi-Fi.
* I would not sue, cry too loudly, or attempt to sabotage Tuesday.
I signed it.
Not because I agreed.
But because I had no job, no money, and no other option.
So now I live in the guest room.
I make her tea while she makes him sweat.
Every Tuesday, he kicks me out of the house.
And every Tuesday, I go on an “adventure” I never asked for.
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Back on the bench, I sipped warm water from my bottle and sighed.
A new Tuesday had begun.
My story was finally being told.
And somewhere, somehow, fate was gearing up to ruin my day again.
All I could do now… was wait.
