"Hey, fucker! Are you even listening?!"
Inside a small convenience store, a man in his 40s was shouting at the top of his lungs. His face, flushed red like an overripe tomato, was either from rage or the heavy stench of alcohol clinging to his breath.
His voice was so loud that it carried outside the store, causing some passersby to glance over briefly before shaking their heads. This kind of commotion wasn't new. The regulars had seen it before, just another drunk making a scene.
"Please calm down, sir," the store manager said, keeping his voice level despite the tension. "This guy is a PWD. We appreciate your concern, but making a fuss here will only cause you more trouble."
(PWD: Person With Disability—referring to individuals with physical, mental, intellectual, or sensory impairments that hinder their participation in society on equal terms.)
"Who's the fucker? You're the fucker, fucking bitch. Why the hell are you angry for? What a joke."
Meanwhile, the person at the center of this chaos remained unbothered, meticulously arranging the store's disorganized products as if he hadn't heard a thing.
His name was Zeiren Braun. A man with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD).
For Zeiren, disorder was unbearable. If things weren't arranged just right, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as if something terrible would happen. The thought would dig into his mind, demanding to be fixed, or it would torment him for hours and sometimes days. His compulsions weren't a choice; they were a necessity, the only way to silence the storm in his head.
But that wasn't his only struggle. Zeiren also had poor impulse control, making it nearly impossible for him to filter his speech. Thoughts left his mouth the moment they entered his mind, often causing conflict with those around him. Whether it was blunt honesty or something better left unsaid, he had no control, only regret.
"See?! Is that even a disability?!" the drunk man bellowed, pointing at Zeiren in disbelief. "He's just saying whatever the hell he wants and calling it a disability?! Don't fuckin' kid me!"
Still facing the shelves, Zeiren continued organizing, his back to the raging man.
"Fucker," he muttered absentmindedly, more focused on aligning a row of canned goods than the growing hostility behind him.
The drunkard's face twisted with fury. "This bitch really can't listen, huh?!"
His hand moved to his back pocket.
A second later, a gun was in his grasp.
The moment the store manager saw the weapon, a terrified scream escaped his lips. He fell to his knees, arms raised in to cover his head, desperate to surrender.
Outside, the horrified gasps of pedestrians filled the air. Some fled, others ducked behind cover, their trembling hands dialing emergency services.
The drunkard grinned manically, swaying slightly as he steadied the gun. "Hah! Your day is over, bitch!"
A deafening *BANG* echoed through the store.
Zeiren felt something pierce his back.
"Huh?"
He reached behind him, his fingers brushing against something warm and wet. Bringing his hand forward, he stared at it.
Blood.
His own blood.
Confusion clouded his mind.
Another bang.
Then another.
And another.
His vision blurred, and as his body crumpled to the ground, the last thing he heard was the sound of people screaming.
***