The rain started as Sasha stepped outside.
Not heavy, just enough to soak through her already damp clothes. She didn't rush. She didn't even raise her hood. She walked, the city blurring around her — buses hissing by, neon signs flickering, car horns distant.
Her mind replayed the shift on a loop:
Debbie's smirk.
The broken glasses.
The look on Carla's face when she saw Sasha scrubbing plates.
Luis, half-laughing, half-panicking, trying to keep the kitchen afloat.
It wasn't just today. It was every shift they worked together. Some worse, some manageable — but all of them tense, loud, exhausting.
Sasha rubbed her eyes, stinging from soap and stress. Her hands still smelled like dishwater.
She crossed the intersection slowly, eyes locked on the sidewalk ahead.
Why did she even care anymore?
It wasn't like this job was her dream. She'd taken it to cover bills, save for school, maybe figure out her life. But somewhere along the line, work had become war, and Debbie was her sworn enemy.
And now?
Now the war was costing her sleep, peace, and what little patience she had left.
As she reached her apartment door, she paused. Her reflection stared back from the glass — tired, soaked, and scowling.
Sasha whispered to herself, "Two more days this week with Debbie."
She exhaled sharply.
"And something's gotta give."