Blantyre City
Tuesday
9:56 AM
The sun was merciless, hammering the ground as if testing who would break first, the builders or the concrete.
"Let’s go, boys! Don’t slow down!"
A muscular foreman barked at the builders carrying long metal bars on the construction site. Standing on the half-full truck , his voice carried authority.
The other employees never seemed to mind, it even helped fire them up with morale that the work absorbed from them.
A temporary fence surrounded the site. Within its bounds stood an unfinished skyscraper beside a storage shed.
While others spent their time partying at the beaches or pools, following the cultural urge that everyone deserved rest in summer, the builders were here, sweating and carrying large metal bars from the delivery truck to the storage shed. It was a clear picture of how far people would go to provide for their families.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
They rushed like an elephant stampede, footsteps shaking the ground, sweat pouring down their faces. In these conditions, the sun punished them more cruelly than the metal bars ever could.
Among the workers who moved restlessly, one young man stood still by the truck, his hand resting on a metal bar as he spoke to the foreman.
"Give me another one," Ross Mutt requested.
He was a slim twenty-five-year-old with pure black hair.Eyes pure green,his skin, though drenched in sweat, was smooth, clearly cared for with expensive oils. Wearing a blue worksuit halfway, exposing his white vest and medium muscles, anyone could tell at first glance that he seemed out of place.
"Sir, you know you don’t have to do this," the foreman said reluctantly, his rough tone softening to suit the recipient. Sweat sprinkled down his face as though he’d been doing the lifting himself.
Ross smiled, pulling a metal bar.
"I’m very aware, but I don’t mind."
The foreman sighed. The man was exhausted and had no choice but to let him continue helping. Together they lifted the heavy bar onto his shoulders like a truck engine revving to life, steady, unwavering, and not the least bit strained.
They had this conversation often, anytime some harsh work came up. Ross would insist on helping them, even though the job had nothing to do with his contract as an architect.
"It’s nice to help fellow employees out," he’d say—his little motto, perhaps.
It was a wonder to anyone why he liked helping other people. Some said it was a requirement from a deal he made with the devil. Others even spoke of an addiction to pain he got from his earlier engagements as a martial artist. All theories were far from the truth. He just didn’t want people to think of him as a weakling simply because he was born into a rich family.
A wish his highly endurant body granted him. Since his early teenage day’s he found out that his body was slightly more hard than a normal human, a revelation only his family knew.
"This boy," the foreman thought, eyes following Ross as he rushed to the shade, the belts on his half-worn worksuit shaking like a swing, "he knows how harsh the sun is, yet he still insists on helping." It was still a wonder to him, but on a larger scale, a sign that good people still existed.
He entered the shade, darkness and cold engulfing his body, eyes focused on balancing the weight on his shoulder.
"Twelve," he counted, creating a feeling of completion to rush through the pain he felt.
He passed two other men leaving the shade, jogging but overwhelmed. No words were exchanged, only glances. In this kind of workplace, conversation was a luxury reserved for the end of the day.
Ding!
He dropped his twelfth bar, slamming it into the pile of identical ones already stacked neatly. Inside, the shade felt like heaven—cooling, reawakening, providing a brief yet precious relief every worker longed for.
Ross straightened up, stretching forward. His body had just shed a large load—something most would rest after—but like the other men he, he wasn’t to stop until the truck was empty.
Ross lifted his head, cheerful as ever.
He turned around swiftly,half-jogging back toward the truck.
Swipe!
He rubbed the sweat from his forehead with his hand. The salt stung his eyes, a small but constant reminder of the toil.
"Aah..."
He exhaled deeply. Cooling the engine I suppose.
"Do I always have to remind you that this isn’t your job?"
A sharp female voice called out, cutting through the sound of labor.
A young woman, about twenty-one, appeared from behind the shade. She wore a fitted suit, the kind an assistant would wear. The hasty conditions did not influence her choice of fashion.
Ross froze like a kid caught stealing sugar. A frown creased his face, his shoulders tensing. Whatever the woman meant, he wasn’t pleased.
"Ahhh! Shit," he muttered under his breath, like someone about to give himself up.
"Are ex–martial artists always this stubborn?" she added, clearly irritated. The timing of the comment didn’t make the situation any better.
"Linda!" he said finally, in a cunning tone, forcing a smirk.
"What’s your reason now?" she shot back, folding her arms as if to keep her composure. She knew too well how crafty Ross could be.
"When did you get here?" he asked, still smiling but with a hint of nervousness.
"About two minutes ago. You know my father would kill me if he found you doing that. You’re an architect, not a builder," she scolded, her words sharp and laced with concern.
Ross met her piercing blue eyes, strict and unwavering. He knew he had to calm her down.
"He wouldn’t do that," Ross said lightly. "You’re the world to him."
The words hit. She blushed, her cheeks turning red, the wrinkles on her forehead fading as her anger melted like smoke.
"Don’t... don’t change the subject! He’ll be arriving any minute now," she stammered, her voice suddenly softer, a nervous squeak slipping through.
Ross scratched the back of his head, still smiling.
"Don’t eat yourself up I’ll stop, but only because your dad is coming" he said casually, dropping the matter once more.
"I know my words don’t matter to you," she continued, trying to sound firm again, "but you have to stop this behavior of yours.He can’t let the child of his best friend carry all this in the scorching sun."
"She has a point. Besides continuing would even be risking my job. I have to lay low for now," he pondered deeply. They had known each other since they were kids and a year ago started working together.
Ring Ring!
The ringtone sliced through the air like a blade. Ross reached into his pocket, breath heavy, and pulled out his phone, pressing it to his ear.
"Hello?" he said.
At first, the voice on the other end was faint, trembling. Then it sharpened.
"Ross!"
"Yes, it’s me. What’s wrong?"
There was hesitation.Then came the words that tore through the air.
"Your father... he’s... he’s dead!"
For a moment,
the sound around him disappeared. The footsteps. The men shouting orders.
Ross’s grip on the phone tightened. His body felt weightless.
His cheerful face collapsed.
"What?" he whispered, voice barely holding together. "How? When?"
He didn’t realize how loud he was until heads began to turn.Metal bars hung still in the men’s hands.
The phone trembled in his hand. His throat went dry, his chest burning as though the sun had fallen right through it.
"I’ll be right there," he managed finally, his voice forced, as if spoken by someone else.
He lowered the phone slowly, unable to process what he’d just heard. His heartbeat felt too loud in the silence that followed.
Linda took a cautious step forward, confusion and concern written all over her face.
"Ross... what’s wrong?" she asked softly.
He turned his head slightly, eyes unfocused, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders.
"My father..." His lips quivered. "He’s dead."
The words came out flat, almost too calm, but his eyes told another story.
Pain. Shock. Denial.
Linda froze, she was speechless. The workers nearby lowered their heads, unsure whether to speak or continue working.
Ross stood there motionless. For the first time that day, the weight on his shoulders wasn’t something he could lift.