Moving

This flash fiction piece was written in twenty minutes in response to a prompt to write about moving to a new place

Vale stacked another box onto the pile developing in the kitchen. No, not Vale. Marin. He still couldn't get used to the new name, but he would have to.
The next room over, movers dropped the couch against the wrong wall. He'd told them, even taped notes to where the furniture should go, and they still got it wrong. Vale wouldn't stand for this. Vale would fire them on the spot and hire someone competent. But Vale also wouldn't live in such a miserable flat, or own such an ugly couch.
What would Marin do? Marin only existed because Vale fucked up and pissed off the wrong people. Maybe Marin should try not pissing people off.
"That's the last of it," the boss mover said as he placed the final chair at the table. "Our invoice. Will you be paying by cash, card, or check?"
Marin took the offered tabled and balked at the amount due. "That's not what I was quoted for this!"
"The furniture was heavier than expected."
Heat rose to Marin's face. His fists clenched, ready to strike. This is unacceptable! Vale screamed in his head. The fee ate too much into the meagre starting funds he was given.
Marin swallowed the growing anger. He existed because of Vale and his mistakes. He couldn't let those mistakes be his end, too.
He pulled out his wallet and counted out the bills. "Here," he said through gritted teeth and forced smile. "And some extra as a tip."
Whatever person Marin was to be, if he was to survive, Vale had to die.