Sasha emerged from the office, shoulders tight, apron slung over one arm like a worn-out flag. The restaurant felt quieter now — the end-of-shift lull, where even the air seemed to exhale.
She didn't speak to anyone. Just made a beeline to the schedule board near the time clock.
A fresh sheet was pinned up. Sharp black ink. Her eyes scanned quickly.
Thursday – 9 AM Shift – Sasha, Debbie, Luis.
Her stomach dropped.
"Are you serious?" she muttered.
Luis walked by, holding a cleaning rag over his shoulder. "What, not excited for Round Two?"
Sasha didn't smile. "It's like they want the place to burn."
Luis shrugged. "Maybe they're testing who breaks first."
She glanced at him. "It's gonna be me."
Luis paused, his voice softer now. "You know, you're not wrong about her. But you gotta think — you want to win? Or survive?"
Sasha stared at the board, the names etched in ink, like a sentence.
"I just want a shift that doesn't end with me washing dishes I didn't cause."
Luis walked away, humming a tune.
Sasha punched out her time card and stood there a moment longer.
Tomorrow, it would all start again.
Debbie. Dirty dishes. Management watching like hawks. One more incident, and either of them could be gone.
As she turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of Debbie across the dining room, standing still, staring at the same schedule.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
No words. No gestures. Just quiet understanding — or was it warning?
Debbie turned away first, her hand brushing her apron pocket, eyes unreadable.
Sasha exhaled slowly and walked out, bracing for war.