I'm the food delivery rider with the lowest rating in the whole city.
Late deliveries, spilled soup, complaints: I never appeal. The station manager calls me useless, and customers call me a loser.
I bow and scrape, saying, "I'm sorry. Enjoy your meal."
They don't know that a bad review is exactly what I'm waiting for.
Three years ago, I closed that door with my own hands. In exchange, the city forgot me completely.
Now the door is opening, and the only thing I can do is collect malice. Every truly spiteful bad review keeps it locked for one more day.
So I beg people to curse me.
So what I fear isn't a one-star rating, but a five-star one.
Until one day, I receive an order addressed to me by name.
The address is the funeral home, Room Three.
And the person who gave me a bad review is lying inside, waiting for me to deliver them on their final journey.
