The morning sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, seeping into Jack's bedroom. The soft glow fell squarely across his face, forcing the eyelids of the large-built man to open, slowly and unwillingly.
Jack let out a faint groan. Fatigue still clung to every inch of his body, while sleep stubbornly refused to release its grip. The night before, he had only returned home around two in the morning after finishing his shift at the 24-hour convenience store—as usual.
With a heavy breath, Jack opened his eyes fully. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, as though granting himself time to gather whatever scraps of energy remained. His 160-kilogram body felt even heavier this morning.
He turned onto his side, his gaze fixing on the alarm clock atop the small table beside the bed.
"Eight already…" he murmured softly.
Without hesitation, Jack summoned his strength and pushed himself out of bed. His movements were slow, but his resolve was unmistakable. He made his way toward the bathroom, leaving the still-messy bed behind.
Jack, a twenty-year-old man, might not possess the ideal physique of most people his age. Yet beneath his massive frame and protruding belly lived a young man of remarkable diligence and endurance.
Each day, his life was governed by a relentless work schedule. During the day, he worked as a house handyman until four in the afternoon. Without the luxury of a long rest, he continued with a part-time job as a storekeeper until nine at night. And when most people were already deep in their sleep, Jack remained standing behind the counter of a convenience store—working until two in the morning, sometimes even until five at dawn.
That was his routine. Day after day. Without complaint. Without absence.
In the bathroom, Jack stood motionless beneath the shower. Cold water cascaded over his head and hair, trickling slowly down his face and body. His eyes were shut, as if he had fallen back asleep while standing.
"PON!"
The sharp blast of a horn from outside jolted him.
Jack flinched. His eyes flew open instantly, alertness rushing back into his body. Without delay, he resumed his shower. Body shampoo was spread across his skin, scrubbed carefully before being rinsed clean.
Several minutes later, Jack stepped out of the bathroom. A coarse towel was used to dry his hair and his still-damp body.
He opened the wardrobe. Inside, shirts and T-shirts hung neatly in order—nothing fancy, but well kept. Jack reached for a checkered shirt and slipped it on before pulling on his favorite pair of jeans.
Once dressed, he did not leave immediately. He tidied his bed first, pulling the sheets tight, neat as he always did. Only then did Jack step out of the bedroom.
Jack lived alone.
His father and mother had been gone for years, killed in a road accident when he was seventeen. His elder sister was a marine, currently stationed at a base in Okinawa. Although she sent him a modest amount of money each month for expenses, Jack still chose to work relentlessly.
To him, there was no such thing as degrading work. He was willing to do any job, so long as it did not violate the law.
Jack stepped into the kitchen. He brewed himself a cup of hot coffee, its bitter aroma filling the small space. From a plastic bag, he took out two slices of bread and ate them just as they were. A simple breakfast at home was more than enough—later at work, his boss had promised him his favorite sandwich.
After finishing his meal, Jack tidied the kitchen in a modest way. The cup was washed, the table wiped clean. Once everything was in order, he prepared himself to head to work.
Outside, the morning greeted him with its familiar atmosphere—fresh air and surroundings that were beginning to stir with activity. The road in front of his home was busy with passing vehicles, a clear sign that a new day had begun. Jack wheeled his bicycle out into the yard.
"Good morning, Mrs. Debra," Jack greeted when he spotted the neighbor next door watering her flowers.
"Good morning, Jack. Off to work?" the elderly woman replied with a smile.
Jack nodded, returning the warmth. "As usual, Mrs. Debra."
Debra let out a soft laugh. "Be careful on the road."
"Yes, thank you. I'll be off now," Jack said before mounting his bicycle.
His large frame was unmistakable as he pedaled along the neighborhood streets. Yet his cycling remained steady and rhythmic. Each time he passed pedestrians, Jack never failed to greet them—his smile and salutations always sincere, as though that was how he honored every day still granted to him.
At exactly 8:45 a.m., Jack arrived at a house still under construction. The skeletal structure stood half-finished, surrounded by the roar of engines and the heavy footsteps of workers. Several people had already arrived earlier, unloading trucks packed with tools and building materials. Jack quickly parked his bicycle beside the temporary fence.
"Good morning, Jack!"
"Good morning, Mr. Jose," Jack replied as he approached a Mexican man who was unloading work equipment from a truck. Without being asked, he immediately offered his help.
"Have breakfast before we start," said a broad-shouldered man—the boss of the site.
"Yes, all right, Mr. Tom," Jack answered obediently.
After helping to arrange the tools, Jack took two sandwiches that had been prepared. In less than a minute or two, they were gone. He wasted no time—returning at once to work alongside the other laborers.
"Jack, mix the cement outside," Mr. Tom instructed.
"Yes, sir," Jack replied, hurrying out.
Sweat soon seeped from beneath the safety helmet he wore, soaking his forehead and cheeks. Yet none of it disturbed his focus. Outside, Jack poured cement powder into the mixer, added just enough water, then let the machine churn the heavy mixture.
When it was ready, Jack lifted the containers of freshly mixed cement and carried them inside the house, handing them off to the other workers. His large body moved swiftly, his steps never once betraying complaint.
He repeated the task again and again—mixing, lifting, delivering—until the next instruction was given.
The sun now stood high in the sky, radiating a heat that felt scorching against the skin. The watch on Jack's wrist showed 1:30 in the afternoon. With slow but steady steps, he walked around the construction site, carrying discarded materials to be piled along the edge of the path.
That was when the aggressive growl of an engine caught his attention.
Two roofless sports cars rolled to a slow stop before him. Inside, men and women laughed together, clearly indulging in a life of luxury and freedom. One of the cars came to a halt not far from where he stood.
"Jack Nicholson," the male driver called out with a mocking smile.
Yes—that was his full name, the name his father had given him.
"Hi, Andrew. Laura," Jack replied calmly.
"You're working construction now?" Andrew asked, glancing around the building site.
"Yes," Jack answered briefly.
"Wow." Andrew glanced at the woman beside him before turning back to Jack. His smile twisted into mockery.
"A fat body like yours… can you even handle hard labor?"
Laura let out a light laugh, clearly amused by the remark.
Jack responded only with a thin smile. His expression remained calm, though something inside him stirred.
"I have to get going," he said, continuing on his way.
"Wait, Jack," Andrew called out.
Jack stopped and turned back.
"How about we hang out like the old days?" Andrew continued, his tone smug. "I'm seriously training in boxing now."
The words caught Jack slightly off guard, but he quickly masked his reaction.
"Maybe another time. I should go," he replied quietly.
"I'm serious," Andrew added. "I need a punching bag to test my punches."
This time, Jack did not turn around.
He kept walking toward his worksite, shoulders straight, steps unshaken. Behind him, only their laughter remained—sharp and hollow—echoing under the scorching midday sun.
Jack sat down briefly on a stack of wooden planks, allowing his body to rest. He drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly, trying to calm the sudden turmoil rising in his chest.
He had never expected to run into his school bully again, especially after so many years had passed. Old memories came crashing back—days when he had been a target of ridicule and violence simply because of his size.
His obesity was not caused by overeating, as people so often accused. It was the result of a rare illness—one with no cure. No matter how hard he exercised, no matter how much sweat he shed, his weight never decreased.
That was why he became a victim.
At school, he had been mocked relentlessly. Punched, beaten, humiliated day after day. Once, he had been attacked by a group so brutally that he was hospitalized with internal injuries and severe swelling of his organs.
Yet justice never stood on his side.
Even after his parents filed a police report, no action was taken. The bullies walked free—shielded by power and money. In the end, it was Jack who bore the consequences. At sixteen, he dropped out of school, carrying wounds that never truly healed.
"Don't think about all that, Jack."
Mr. Tom's voice pulled him back.
"I'm not thinking about it. I'm just taking a short break," Jack replied calmly.
Mr. Tom sat down beside him and offered a bottle of cold drink. Jack accepted it with a small nod. He had worked with the man for four years—since the second day after his parents passed away.
"If one day you were given power… what would you do with it?"
Tom asked without looking at Jack, his eyes still fixed on the construction site before them.
Jack fell silent for a moment before answering, his voice low but firm.
"I would use that power to make myself a king."
Tom chuckled softly. "Why would you want to be a king?"
Jack drew a breath. "Because I could do whatever I want. I could give orders. Then no one would dare to toy with me again. A king has absolute power—people have no choice but to submit."
Tom nodded slowly. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be a king. But you'd still have to choose—whether to be a good king, or a cruel one."
Jack sighed quietly. "I don't know, Mr. Tom. I'm not the kind who enjoys violence. If I were truly given power one day… I wouldn't repay what they did to me back then."
Tom gave Jack's thigh a gentle pat, his smile carrying quiet meaning.
"Good, Jack. What's past is past. What matters is your life now. I know you're mentally strong—you're not ashamed, you don't give up easily. Your spirit is strong, Jack. That's why I like you."
Jack let out a small laugh. "I'm not a rainbow."
Tom replied casually, "I'm an idiot too."
They both burst into laughter, a shared release that briefly loosened the weight in their chests.
But suddenly, a sharp siren blared from Tom's phone, followed by the same sound from Jack's phone and those of the other workers.
The laughter stopped at once.