You wake up in a panic. The clock on your nightstand flashes **9:42 AM**. Your shift started at 9.
Your phone lies dead on the bed, abandoned, forgotten. You curse under your breath, knowing it’s your fault, like always. The old Nokia you use as a backup barely has enough juice for a single call. You pull on your Footlocker uniform in a hurry, trying not to think about how you overslept.
The apartment is silent. Your father’s truck is gone, and your mom's room is empty. She’s probably at the nursing home again, working another 12-hour shift. Your dad, a truck driver, has been gone since the early morning, as usual.
You glance at the clock, grab your bag, and dash out the door. You don’t have time to think,Dublin’s streets never slow down.
<img src="https://media.tenor.com/uuKjbvV0kcsAAAAe/donald-duck-scared.png">
[[Rush to work]]
[[Pause for a moment, reflect]]You barrel down the narrow Dublin streets, dodging crowds of people walking slowly, consumed by their own worries. You move faster, pushing through the crowd, trying not to think about the ache in your leg. Every step reminds you of the fractured femur that ended your football career.
As you pass a café, you overhear a group of men talking loudly about some attack earlier today.
**Man 1**: "They say a guy attacked kids outside the school. Three of them. Just stabbed 'em."
**Man 2**: "Sounds like a hate crime. They say the guy was a foreigner."
**Man 1**: "No one knows yet. But you know how it is."
You can’t help but overhear. It’s all over the place now. The attack. The whispers. You wonder how much of it’s true. You don’t want to know.
<img src="https://as1.ftcdn.net/jpg/00/38/46/66/1000_F_38466694_ltRkJgzaqmurIfOZ55NYH2o4x0eb4P7g.jpg">
[[Head inside Footlocker]]
[[Pause for a moment, reflect]]You stop just outside the building, leaning against the brick wall. You take a deep breath, trying to push away the weight of the world.
You think about everything. Your football career. The injury. Your family. The strain of watching your mom work herself into the ground, your dad’s tired silence, and your sister, Tricia, who always seemed to have it all together. You feel like you’ve always been the shadow. The one who doesn’t quite fit.
As you stand there, the tension in the air feels different today. The usual Dublin hum of traffic, people laughing, shouting—everything is quieter. Something feels off.
<img src="https://cdn.prod.website-files.com/6152f174f15d41261946793b/617741fee7759767a85161e2_two-heads-in-profile.jpeg">
[[Go to work]]
[[Stay on the streets for a while longer]]You push those thoughts aside and head straight for Footlocker. You step into the fluorescent-lit store, the familiar smell of rubber and floor cleaner filling the air.
It’s quiet—no rush, just the buzz of the overhead lights and the occasional ring of the register. You keep your head down, moving between aisles, helping customers with their shoes. It’s the same routine. You’ve done this a hundred times.
The news still lingers in your mind, but you bury it. You can’t afford to care right now.
<img src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/33/Foot_Locker_Southern_Park_Mall.jpg">
[[Start working]]
[[Riot news breaks on social media]]You linger for a while, just outside the entrance. The protests have started to pick up again on the streets. You see groups of people gathered by the Spire, some holding signs, others just shouting. The tension in the air is palpable now—people are angry.
You wonder if it’ll all blow over like it usually does. But deep down, you know this feels different. You’ve heard the murmurs—there’s something simmering beneath the surface of Dublin, something the media’s not showing.
<img src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c4/Grafton_St%2C_Dublin.jpg">
[[Head inside Footlocker]]
You spend the next few hours zoning out, moving between customers and ringing up sales without thinking much about it. It’s not until 1:30 PM that things begin to change.
Your coworker, **Liam**, comes back from the stockroom, looking tense.
**Liam**: *“Did you hear? A guy attacked three kids and their teacher outside a school. With a knife. Horrible.”*
You stop, your heart sinking. You don’t know the details, but it doesn’t matter.
You can hear snippets of conversation from other workers, catching phrases like “foreign” and “immigrant.” It feels like the kind of thing that will escalate. You’ve heard the murmurs of growing tension in the city before. You wonder if this is the spark.
<img src="https://www.careeraddict.com/uploads/article/59308/Illustration-people-shop.jpg">
[[Brush it off]]
[[Ask more questions]]
It’s 4:45 PM when a post on Twitter X catches your attention.
*“Meet at the Spire at 7 PM. Enough is enough.”*
You glance at your coworker, **Sinead**, who shows you the tweet. The hashtag is a call for action, for protest. Or is it something worse? You don’t know, but you feel it. The same feeling you had earlier. Like something’s about to snap.
**Sinead**: *“This is going to get ugly. They’re already gathering at Parnell Street.”*
<img src="https://i.guim.co.uk/img/media/3d0196130c68c7e37a00fbae9c23e6addb48f549/0_0_5604_3364/master/5604.jpg?width=1200&quality=85&auto=format&fit=max&s=8c0cba89e7b9f438d60dfaf04e11e753">
[[Continue working]]
[[Prepare to leave]]You walk into the store, the bell above the door jingling softly as you enter. The quiet buzz of the fluorescent lights greets you, and you step behind the counter to start your shift. The mood in the store feels off though, as customers occasionally glance outside, whispering about the growing unrest.
**Manager**: *"Troy, you're late. Get to it."*
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/tOcvJAS.gif">
You nod, a little distracted by the feeling in the air. Today is different.
[[Start working]]You shake your head, trying to push the unease away. It’s just another story that’ll fade by the end of the week. You focus back on the register, pretending it doesn’t bother you.
**Liam**: *“It’s pretty messed up though, isn’t it?”*
You just nod. You’re good at nodding, at pretending things don’t hurt.
[[Wait for the next shift]]
**You**: *“Where did this happen? What’s going on?”*
**Liam**: *“City Centre, they say. Gardaí are everywhere. They don’t know if the guy was even Irish.”*
The words sting, even though you try to brush it off. The rumors are growing. This isn’t just about an attack anymore. It’s about who’s blamed, who’s feared, and who’s caught in the middle of it.
You can’t shake the thought of it. It feels like things are breaking apart.
<img src="https://img.freepik.com/free-vector/organic-flat-people-asking-questions_23-2148896826.jpg">
[[Wait for the next shift]]Time moves slowly. You spend your day helping customers, but your thoughts keep drifting back to the rumors you’ve heard.
By 2:00 PM, the speculation reaches a fever pitch. You hear whispers in the aisles.
**Customer 1**: *“He’s gotta be an immigrant. You know it.”*
**Customer 2**: *“It’s all going to hell, isn’t it? The city’s changing.”*
You hear the conversations everywhere. You feel it all around you. The tension. The anger. You wonder if it’ll ever end.
[[Riot news breaks on social media]]You try to focus on your work. You try to keep your mind off the growing noise outside. But the whispers, the murmurs, they’re everywhere now. Every customer seems to be talking about the protest. The tension is building.
**Manager**: *"Stay sharp, everyone. We may need to close early."*
You don’t know if it’s just precaution or if they’re sensing something bigger. Either way, the store feels smaller now.
<img src="https://sor-solicitors.ie/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/Woman-Supermarket.jpg">
[[Riot escalates]]You’re about to clock out when you hear shouting from the street. People are yelling, and you can see figures gathering outside, their silhouettes moving in the growing dark. You know you should stay inside, safe, but part of you wonders if you should leave.
**Manager**: *"Stay put, Troy. We don’t know what’s coming yet."*
You stay. But the unease gnaws at you.
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[[Riot escalates]]By 5:42 PM, the first push comes. A Garda is shoved by a protestor, and the crowd erupts. You can
feel it in the air—the crackling tension, the building chaos. People shout. Some scream.
Your coworker, **Niall**, grabs your arm, his face pale.
**Niall**: *“It’s starting.”*
It’s too late to turn back. You feel it.
[[Try to ignore it]]
[[Check outside]]
You try to focus on the register, but your hands shake. The store feels like it’s closing in on you.
It’s happening, and you’re stuck here.
[[Footlocker – 7:41 PM]]
You peek out the window, and your stomach drops. The street is packed. People are pushing, shouting. The protests are no longer just about the attack. They’ve grown, spilling over into anger at everything—the system, the city, the divide. You see people with masks, holding signs. You can feel the heat of the crowd from where you stand.
<img src="https://www.irishtimes.com/resizer/wpAeMWyVCVjx2XWXv_47EL85GUY=/arc-photo-irishtimes/eu-central-1-prod/public/XQXVSXKAGY5CM2N3ROIDVFAA7E.JPG">
[[Footlocker – 7:41 PM]]The door slams open. The first wave of protestors floods the store, grabbing shoes, throwing them in the air, screaming. You freeze for a moment, unsure what to do. It feels like the world has fractured, and you’re caught in the middle.
**Customer**: “Take what you want. It’s all going up in flames.”
You watch as people tear through the aisles, tossing shoes aside, some running out of the store with armfuls of sneakers. The noise is deafening, the chaos overwhelming. You’re just standing there, your heart racing, trying to process what’s happening.
<img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTtrvTGwwG-2Js4c2fnVg4DqMCxJSEYVKnZFQ&s">
[[Try to stop them]]
[[Escape]]You shout, trying to pull people away from the shelves. But they don’t even see you. It’s chaos. You can’t stop them. Some of them glance at you with disdain, others seem too caught up in the frenzy to even register your presence.
Your hands shake as you call the Gardai, but the noise of the crowd drowns out your voice. You can’t hold this back. It’s too late.
[[Aftermath]]You run for the back exit, your leg screaming with every step. The noise, the heat, the chaos—it’s all closing in. You can hear the screams getting louder, the breaking glass. But you don’t look back.
You stumble out the back door and into the alley behind the store, your breath ragged as you try to regain some control. You stop for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. The riots have begun, and you’re no longer safe in the quiet corners of your life. The city has erupted.
[[Aftermath]]By 8:30 PM, the Gardaí have deployed the public order unit. The streets are filled with officers in riot gear, clashing with protestors. The air smells of smoke, and the sounds of breaking glass and shouting fill the night. You stand outside, watching the chaos unfold, feeling completely detached from the world you knew.
By 9:15 PM, Parliament Street is burning. Cars overturned. Stores looted. Fires everywhere. Dublin’s skyline has changed, its familiar lights now obscured by smoke and ash. You can hear the sirens wailing, but they feel far away, like a distant memory.
By 10:30 PM, the Gardaí have regained some control. Thirty-four arrests have been made. But the damage is done. The city is fractured. The streets, once full of life and energy, are now full of tension and destruction.
<img src="https://www.rte.ie/images/001f2ea7-1600.jpg">
[[The End]]You sit on a curb, your head in your hands. The city you’ve known your whole life feels like a stranger now. It’s too late to fix what’s broken. The world feels smaller than ever.
<img src="https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/depressed-businessman-his-knees-hands-his-hair-30291038.jpg">