The shift starts at 4:30 AM because capitalism never sleeps and neither does Owen fucking Sullivan, apparently.

He's standing behind the counter arranging the pastry display. Croissants at exactly the right angle, cake pops lined up like soldiers—when he sees them through the glass doors. The mouth-breathers. The corporate zombies. At least thirty of them pressed against the entrance like something out of Dawn of the Dead except somehow more pathetic because they're not even here for survival. They're here for glass bears wearing fucking green hats.

"Bearistas," corporate calls them. Two limited-edition honey bear-shaped cups with tiny green beanies.

Two.

For a store that serves three hundred customers before noon. Some MBA genius definitely got a bonus for this stroke of marketing brilliance.

Owen adjusts his septum piercing, flipped up because district manager Kevin is a fascist—and checks his phone.

5:58 AM.

The horde outside shifts restlessly, breath fogging the windows. One woman's actually brought a camping chair. Another guy's wearing what looks like tactical gear, like he's about to storm Normandy for the privilege of overpriced collectible drinkware.

(This is what society's become. This is the death rattle of authentic culture.)

Vicky bounces past him, blonde ponytail swinging, humming some Top 40 garbage. "Exciting morning, right? I love launch days! So much energy!"

Owen wants to explain that this isn't energy at all, it's fuckin' mass hysteria manufactured by a corporation to move units, but the words die in his throat because what's the fucking point? Vicky thinks pumpkin spice is a personality trait.

6:00 AM.

He unlocks the doors because he's got no other choice...

The first fifteen seconds are almost peaceful really...that suspended moment before impact when everyone's still processing that the barrier's gone.

Then some suburban dad in New Balances sprints. Actually books it. Like his kids' college funds depend on securing a stupid ass glass bear.

New Balance Dad grabs one. Victory. One down.

The second bear sits there on the display. All alone like a precious relic.

That's when shit gets real.

Scalper Dude—Owen recognizes the type, probably has a storage unit full of limited edition Funko Pops, lunges for it. But 3 AM Camping Chair Lady's faster, or maybe just more desperate. Their hands collide on the bear. Neither lets go.

"I've been here since three in the morning!" She's screaming now, voice cracking, honest to god actual tears welling up in her eyes.

"First come first served, lady! Free market!" Scalper Guy yanks harder.

The bear's suspended between them like some cutesy, blank-eyed, tug-of-war trophy. Other customers circle like sharks smelling blood. Someone shouts at the other workers to tell them to check in the back. Someone else mentions lawyers.

Owen watches from behind the counter, a detached observer of late-stage capitalism's death throes. Part of him, the part that still writes poetry about societal decay at 2 AM, finds it almost beautiful. Performance art. The Decline of Western Civilization, Live at Starbucks, Opening Night Only!.

Then the first punch flies.

Camping Chair Lady's husband, apparently. Right hook to Scalper Guy's jaw. Suddenly everyone's involved. The bear goes flying. Someone screams about property damage. A yoga mom tries to grab it mid-air and crashes into a shelf.

Vicky's trapped at the register, wide-eyed, still trying to take someone's order for a "skinny vanilla latte with two pumps sugar-free hazelnut" while chaos erupts feet away from her. She shoots Owen a pleading look.

Fuck.

He vaults the counter, not gracefully though, his wallet chain catches on something—and begrudgingly throws himself into the chaos. "Hey! HEY! Break it up!"

Nobody listens.

Obviously.

He's just some emo kid in a green apron to them.

At first he tries to separate Scalper Guy and Camping Chair Husband. Gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. Then—

CRACK.

Stars dance across his vision. Someone's fist connects with his eye and the world spirals. His oh-so-carefully maintained hair flies into disarray. The contact lens in his left eye—one of the blue ones that makes him look interesting, pops out.

Something inside Owen Sullivan just breaks then. Twenty-three years of suppressed suburban rage, of customer service smile-and-nod bullshit, of pretending any of this matters, it all just comes flooding out.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Spit shoots out of his mouth on the last word but he doesn't give a shit anymore. "All of you! GET OUT! This is a COFFEE SHOP, not fucking... not... GET OUT!"

The fighting stops. Everyone stares. Owen's standing there, one blue eye and one brown, hair everywhere, nose maybe bleeding. He looks like a maniac. He feels like one tool. It's the most authentic he's been in months.

"Out. Now. Or I'm calling the cops and telling them about the assault." He points at the door with a shaking hand. "The bear's broken anyway."

And it is. The precious Bearista lies in pieces near the condiment station, its little green hat somehow intact but separated from its body like a dying soldier.

The crowd starts shuffling toward the exit, mumbling about corporate complaints and Yelp reviews. Owen doesn't have a single solitary shit to give. His eye's swelling shut and his manager's definitely going to fire him and somehow none of that matters because for thirty seconds he got to tell these people exactly what he thinks of them.

Best. Day. Ever.

That's when he notices them. Standing off to the side, phone raised, recording. They've probably caught the whole thing....fuck.

The punch, his meltdown, his heterochromatic eyes exposed to the world. The horror!

"Are you brain dead?" Owen's voice goes up an octave. "I said GET OUT! Delete that shit and get out!"

The shift starts at 4:30 AM because capitalism never sleeps and neither does Owen fucking Sullivan, apparently.

He's standing behind the counter arranging the pastry display. Croissants at exactly the right angle, cake pops lined up like soldiers—when he sees them through the glass doors. The mouth-breathers. The corporate zombies. At least thirty of them pressed against the entrance like something out of Dawn of the Dead except somehow more pathetic because they're not even here for survival. They're here for glass bears wearing fucking green hats.

"Bearistas," corporate calls them. Two limited-edition honey bear-shaped cups with tiny green beanies.

Two.

For a store that serves three hundred customers before noon. Some MBA genius definitely got a bonus for this stroke of marketing brilliance.

Owen adjusts his septum piercing, flipped up because district manager Kevin is a fascist—and checks his phone.

5:58 AM.

The horde outside shifts restlessly, breath fogging the windows. One woman's actually brought a camping chair. Another guy's wearing what looks like tactical gear, like he's about to storm Normandy for the privilege of overpriced collectible drinkware.

(This is what society's become. This is the death rattle of authentic culture.)

Vicky bounces past him, blonde ponytail swinging, humming some Top 40 garbage. "Exciting morning, right? I love launch days! So much energy!"

Owen wants to explain that this isn't energy at all, it's fuckin' mass hysteria manufactured by a corporation to move units, but the words die in his throat because what's the fucking point? Vicky thinks pumpkin spice is a personality trait.

6:00 AM.

He unlocks the doors because he's got no other choice...

The first fifteen seconds are almost peaceful really...that suspended moment before impact when everyone's still processing that the barrier's gone.

Then some suburban dad in New Balances sprints. Actually books it. Like his kids' college funds depend on securing a stupid ass glass bear.

New Balance Dad grabs one. Victory. One down.

The second bear sits there on the display. All alone like a precious relic.

That's when shit gets real.

Scalper Dude—Owen recognizes the type, probably has a storage unit full of limited edition Funko Pops, lunges for it. But 3 AM Camping Chair Lady's faster, or maybe just more desperate. Their hands collide on the bear. Neither lets go.

"I've been here since three in the morning!" She's screaming now, voice cracking, honest to god actual tears welling up in her eyes.

"First come first served, lady! Free market!" Scalper Guy yanks harder.

The bear's suspended between them like some cutesy, blank-eyed, tug-of-war trophy. Other customers circle like sharks smelling blood. Someone shouts at the other workers to tell them to check in the back. Someone else mentions lawyers.

Owen watches from behind the counter, a detached observer of late-stage capitalism's death throes. Part of him, the part that still writes poetry about societal decay at 2 AM, finds it almost beautiful. Performance art. The Decline of Western Civilization, Live at Starbucks, Opening Night Only!.

Then the first punch flies.

Camping Chair Lady's husband, apparently. Right hook to Scalper Guy's jaw. Suddenly everyone's involved. The bear goes flying. Someone screams about property damage. A yoga mom tries to grab it mid-air and crashes into a shelf.

Vicky's trapped at the register, wide-eyed, still trying to take someone's order for a "skinny vanilla latte with two pumps sugar-free hazelnut" while chaos erupts feet away from her. She shoots Owen a pleading look.

Fuck.

He vaults the counter, not gracefully though, his wallet chain catches on something—and begrudgingly throws himself into the chaos. "Hey! HEY! Break it up!"

Nobody listens.

Obviously.

He's just some emo kid in a green apron to them.

At first he tries to separate Scalper Guy and Camping Chair Husband. Gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. Then—

CRACK.

Stars dance across his vision. Someone's fist connects with his eye and the world spirals. His oh-so-carefully maintained hair flies into disarray. The contact lens in his left eye—one of the blue ones that makes him look interesting, pops out.

Something inside Owen Sullivan just breaks then. Twenty-three years of suppressed suburban rage, of customer service smile-and-nod bullshit, of pretending any of this matters, it all just comes flooding out.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Spit shoots out of his mouth on the last word but he doesn't give a shit anymore. "All of you! GET OUT! This is a COFFEE SHOP, not fucking... not... GET OUT!"

The fighting stops. Everyone stares. Owen's standing there, one blue eye and one brown, hair everywhere, nose maybe bleeding. He looks like a maniac. He feels like one tool. It's the most authentic he's been in months.

"Out. Now. Or I'm calling the cops and telling them about the assault." He points at the door with a shaking hand. "The bear's broken anyway."

And it is. The precious Bearista lies in pieces near the condiment station, its little green hat somehow intact but separated from its body like a dying soldier.

The crowd starts shuffling toward the exit, mumbling about corporate complaints and Yelp reviews. Owen doesn't have a single solitary shit to give. His eye's swelling shut and his manager's definitely going to fire him and somehow none of that matters because for thirty seconds he got to tell these people exactly what he thinks of them.

Best. Day. Ever.

That's when he notices her. Standing off to the side, phone raised, recording. She probably caught the whole thing....fuck.

The punch, his meltdown, his heterochromatic eyes exposed to the world. The horror!

"Are you brain dead?" Owen's voice goes up an octave. "I said GET OUT! Delete that shit and get out!"

The shift starts at 4:30 AM because capitalism never sleeps and neither does Owen fucking Sullivan, apparently.

He's standing behind the counter arranging the pastry display. Croissants at exactly the right angle, cake pops lined up like soldiers—when he sees them through the glass doors. The mouth-breathers. The corporate zombies. At least thirty of them pressed against the entrance like something out of Dawn of the Dead except somehow more pathetic because they're not even here for survival. They're here for glass bears wearing fucking green hats.

"Bearistas," corporate calls them. Two limited-edition honey bear-shaped cups with tiny green beanies.

Two.

For a store that serves three hundred customers before noon. Some MBA genius definitely got a bonus for this stroke of marketing brilliance.

Owen adjusts his septum piercing, flipped up because district manager Kevin is a fascist—and checks his phone.

5:58 AM.

The horde outside shifts restlessly, breath fogging the windows. One woman's actually brought a camping chair. Another guy's wearing what looks like tactical gear, like he's about to storm Normandy for the privilege of overpriced collectible drinkware.

(This is what society's become. This is the death rattle of authentic culture.)

Vicky bounces past him, blonde ponytail swinging, humming some Top 40 garbage. "Exciting morning, right? I love launch days! So much energy!"

Owen wants to explain that this isn't energy at all, it's fuckin' mass hysteria manufactured by a corporation to move units, but the words die in his throat because what's the fucking point? Vicky thinks pumpkin spice is a personality trait.

6:00 AM.

He unlocks the doors because he's got no other choice...

The first fifteen seconds are almost peaceful really...that suspended moment before impact when everyone's still processing that the barrier's gone.

Then some suburban dad in New Balances sprints. Actually books it. Like his kids' college funds depend on securing a stupid ass glass bear.

New Balance Dad grabs one. Victory. One down.

The second bear sits there on the display. All alone like a precious relic.

That's when shit gets real.

Scalper Dude—Owen recognizes the type, probably has a storage unit full of limited edition Funko Pops, lunges for it. But 3 AM Camping Chair Lady's faster, or maybe just more desperate. Their hands collide on the bear. Neither lets go.

"I've been here since three in the morning!" She's screaming now, voice cracking, honest to god actual tears welling up in her eyes.

"First come first served, lady! Free market!" Scalper Guy yanks harder.

The bear's suspended between them like some cutesy, blank-eyed, tug-of-war trophy. Other customers circle like sharks smelling blood. Someone shouts at the other workers to tell them to check in the back. Someone else mentions lawyers.

Owen watches from behind the counter, a detached observer of late-stage capitalism's death throes. Part of him, the part that still writes poetry about societal decay at 2 AM, finds it almost beautiful. Performance art. The Decline of Western Civilization, Live at Starbucks, Opening Night Only!.

Then the first punch flies.

Camping Chair Lady's husband, apparently. Right hook to Scalper Guy's jaw. Suddenly everyone's involved. The bear goes flying. Someone screams about property damage. A yoga mom tries to grab it mid-air and crashes into a shelf.

Vicky's trapped at the register, wide-eyed, still trying to take someone's order for a "skinny vanilla latte with two pumps sugar-free hazelnut" while chaos erupts feet away from her. She shoots Owen a pleading look.

Fuck.

He vaults the counter, not gracefully though, his wallet chain catches on something—and begrudgingly throws himself into the chaos. "Hey! HEY! Break it up!"

Nobody listens.

Obviously.

He's just some emo kid in a green apron to them.

At first he tries to separate Scalper Guy and Camping Chair Husband. Gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. Then—

CRACK.

Stars dance across his vision. Someone's fist connects with his eye and the world spirals. His oh-so-carefully maintained hair flies into disarray. The contact lens in his left eye—one of the blue ones that makes him look interesting, pops out.

Something inside Owen Sullivan just breaks then. Twenty-three years of suppressed suburban rage, of customer service smile-and-nod bullshit, of pretending any of this matters, it all just comes flooding out.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Spit shoots out of his mouth on the last word but he doesn't give a shit anymore. "All of you! GET OUT! This is a COFFEE SHOP, not fucking... not... GET OUT!"

The fighting stops. Everyone stares. Owen's standing there, one blue eye and one brown, hair everywhere, nose maybe bleeding. He looks like a maniac. He feels like one tool. It's the most authentic he's been in months.

"Out. Now. Or I'm calling the cops and telling them about the assault." He points at the door with a shaking hand. "The bear's broken anyway."

And it is. The precious Bearista lies in pieces near the condiment station, its little green hat somehow intact but separated from its body like a dying soldier.

The crowd starts shuffling toward the exit, mumbling about corporate complaints and Yelp reviews. Owen doesn't have a single solitary shit to give. His eye's swelling shut and his manager's definitely going to fire him and somehow none of that matters because for thirty seconds he got to tell these people exactly what he thinks of them.

Best. Day. Ever.

That's when he notices him. Standing off to the side, phone raised, recording. He probably caught the whole thing....fuck.

The punch, his meltdown, his heterochromatic eyes exposed to the world. The horror!

"Are you brain dead?" Owen's voice goes up an octave. "I said GET OUT! Delete that shit and get out!"