It was a slow day at the Krusty Krab.
The kind of day Squidward lived for—not out of any love for his job, but because it required the least amount of interaction with anyone. With his lanky tentacles draped over the cashier's stand like a dying houseplant, he flipped lazily through the latest issue of Clarinet Weekly, a half-empty cup of kelp soda sweating beside him.
"10 Hot Tips for Cold Notes!" the cover read.
For once, things were quiet. Peaceful. Almost... tolerable.
Then the doors to the kitchen burst open.
"Guess what, Squidward?" came the shrill, hyper-cheerful voice of SpongeBob SquarePants, his yellow body bouncing like a glitchy animation frame.
Squidward didn't even look up. "You've taken a vow of silence and decided to move to a cave?"
"Nope!" SpongeBob beamed, his eyes practically glowing. "I just made over one hundred cold calls to everyone in Bikini Bottom and personally invited them to the Krusty Krab for a meal! I even sang to a few of them! People love surprise jingles!"
Squidward blinked. "You… what?"
Before he could process the horror, the front doors slammed open with a thud, then again, and again, and again. Fish began pouring in from every corner of town—families, old ladies, businessfish, schoolkids, a bus of tourists—flooding the restaurant like a tidal wave of bad breath and unreasonable demands.
"Food! Food! I was promised a free Krabby Joke with my meal!"
"Do you validate coral carts?"
"I want six patties, light on the pickles but heavy on the pickle juice!"
The cash register began beeping furiously as Squidward pounded at it, trying to keep up.
Mr. Krabs dashed in, eyes gleaming with pure dollar signs. "That's me boy! That's the spirit, SpongeBob!" he barked joyfully, slapping the sponge on the back. "You've got the kind of drive I like to see! Initiative! Hustle!"
He turned to Squidward. "Maybe you should take notes, lad. Instead of collectin' dust and rejection letters from music schools."
Squidward gritted his teeth so hard that it produced a sound akin to nails on chalkboard.
Hours passed. Like a slow, boiling nightmare.
Squidward scribbled orders. He dodged drinks thrown in frustration. He restocked napkins that were somehow already gone again. He smiled through gritted teeth as customers screamed at him for "too much mayonnaise" or "too little ketchup."
At last, night fell.
The flood trickled down to a few stragglers licking the floors. Mr. Krabs finally rang the closing bell with a smile so wide it threatened to split his head in half.
"Well done, lads! Best day of sales in three months! Now mop up and get out! I'll see you tomorrow."
SpongeBob hummed joyfully as he scrubbed the floor, seemingly unfazed. Squidward, by contrast, felt hollow. His back ached. His dignity was in tatters. He wanted to scream into the void, but the void had a waitlist.
He trudged outside to catch some air.
That's when he saw it.
A black book, lying perfectly still just in front of the Krusty Krab's entrance. No wind. No footprints. No note. Just sitting there, almost like it had been waiting for someone.
He stared at it for a moment.
Curiosity got the better of him—something rare. He bent down, picked it up, and wiped a smudge off the front.
Two simple words:
DEATH NOTE
"…Great," Squidward muttered. "Another lost diary from some goth fish."
Still, something about it felt… off.
Heavy.
Important.
He tucked it under his arm, glancing around to see if anyone was watching, and muttered to himself as he slunk back home under the flickering lights of Bikini Bottom.
"This better not be another self-help book."