The room was filled with all types of safety gears, PPEs of all sizes hung by a small clothes rack against the wall on the left, helmets and stacks of shoe boxes arranged neatly in a row and two clear plastic containers, the same size as the one inside the office placed under the rack. He squatted in front of the plastic containers, lifted one of it closer to him before taking off its lid and rummaged through it.

"What about Chubby Jason Statham?" I asked again.

"Chubby who?" he asked, half paying attention.

"That Chubby Jason Statham guy, who beat me up like a piñata," I clarified. "He's well off as a transporter."

Nick paused, he looked up fixing his eyes on me. "Cane?"

"Yeah. I thought –"

"You don't get to insult my men," he said politely, resumed searching.

"Oh!" I flustered. "And he gets to call me a bitch."

"That's his job," Nick responded, pulling out a pair of grey gloves and handed it over to me. "Here, try them on."

The gloves had a niff to it as though it has never left the box at all. Initially I putted on the gloves but took it off immediately. "I don't need it."

"Suit yourself," Nick shrugged but didn't take the gloves from my hand as he reinstated the container. He pushed himself up towards the clothes rack in front of him and scan through any PPE that fits me.

"Why do I have to be a transporter?" I asked heatedly.

"The previous one died yesterday," Nick answered abruptly.

"Oh, how he died?" I asked again, regaining my shock.

"You asked too many questions," he snickered and pulled out an M size PPE, handed it over to me. "He died yesterday morning, accidently choking on something he thought was edible. So yeah, your sudden visit has caught us at a bad time yesterday."

"Sorry," I said slowly, looking down at the PPE and the gloves in my arms.

"Any more questions?" Nick asked, rolling his eyes at me.

I gave myself a thoughtful pause before I shot another, "Why do I have to wear all these?"

I was taken to a small warehouse of approximately 2,000 square meter size outside the property with all sorts of rubbish scattered and piled up, disorganised. The warehouse was too messy and musty, I felt sick to the stomach just by entering it. My instinct told me that they could be hiding the bodies of their dead victims here before they discarded them away. I prayed I wouldn't find any underneath the cluttered piles.

"You need to clean this up by noon," Nick said with a cigarette wedged between his lips. "New orders will arrive by tomorrow morn so we need the space empty to load them in."

"Where are others?" I asked spun around.

"There are no others," he replied, taking a few puffs of his cigarette. "Manpower shortage, remember?"

"You can't be serious? I can't be doing this on my own," I objected.

"Jack managed it on his own before he died," he countered.

"But Jack is a man."

"What's the difference?" he exhaled his smoke. "Equal rights, equal fights."

I plodded through a stack of pallets, tangled electric cables, used parcel boxes of various sizes, used car batteries, shredded printed materials and some other materials, fabrics, substances I couldn't make out of, all jumbled up in one big pile. The flooring was covered with mud and oil stain making it harder for me to walk around. But I was supplied with whatever cleaning materials, relevant tools and trolleys needed for me to do the work.

The clean-up was painstakingly exhausting but gradually turned possible halfway through. Initially, I sorted them out according to types of materials but an hour was wasted away just by doing so. So I clustered them into a sizable amount that could fit in a trash bag and stuffed them accordingly before putting them into general waste bins. Once done, I scrubbed off the muddy stain and oil dirt covering half of the warehouse floor with much effort. Secretly, I was glad I made the right decision to have two sandwiches at Greggs on my way here.

It was already 20 past 12.00 pm when Nick came in to see the progress of my work. I expected he would be impressed that I was able to finish them within time but the frown on his face said otherwise. He scanned around the warehouse and inspected the general waste bins that I arranged in a row by the entrance, one by one.

"What's inside this bag?" he asked, putting on a pair of safety gloves while peering into one of the waste bins nearest to him.

"All of it," I answered frankly. "Whatever those rubbish inside this warehouse."

"All of it?" his eyebrows furrowed. "Including the pallets, batteries and the electric cables?"

"Not all of it," I corrected. "I chucked the pallets by the dumpster."

"Are all of them in bad condition?" he probed.

"I don't know..."

"So you meant to say that you trashed all of the items without even bother to check its condition, good or not?" Nick's voice rose in agitation, untying the knot in the first trash bag. "Do you know how much they are worth?"

"You didn't tell me that I should keep the good ones."

"Where is your brain?!" he snapped, pulling out the first trash bag from the bin and placed it onto the floor. He beckoned me to come closer while pointing at the car battery inside the bag. "This is not how you dispose car batteries. Do you know how hazardous this is? If EA finds out, you're fucked!"

"I didn't know," I defended, feeling a sudden heat creeping at the tip of my ears.

"Take it out, all of them and put them aside. And the cables too," he ordered. "And I need you to wash the truck out there after lunch. We need to have it ready for tomorrow's delivery."

"Can we just send them to the car wash instead?"

"Again, you asked too many questions!" Nick fumed.