Sasha dropped her tray hard on the nearest counter.
"Where the hell is Debbie?"
Luis looked up from the stove, eyes wide. "She was just here—"
The dish drop was overflowing. Dirty plates, greasy pans, forks tangled like vines. The sink sat still, water cold.
Sasha stormed into the break room.
There sat Debbie, scrolling her phone, headphones in.
Sasha ripped one earbud out.
"You disappeared again."
Debbie didn't flinch. "I needed a break. I've been working all morning."
"There are ten people at table twelve waiting for food — no clean plates, no service, and you're back here watching cat videos?"
Debbie stood slowly. "You don't get to speak to me like that."
Sasha stepped closer, voice trembling. "I've carried your mess for months. Every time you decide you're 'not happy,' I suffer for it. The kitchen suffers. The customers suffer."
Debbie's voice was low and sharp. "You're not a saint, Sasha. You've got complaints, write-ups, attitude—"
"I show up!" Sasha shouted. "I don't walk out mid-shift. I don't leave people drowning in dishes!"
Luis appeared at the door, eyes wide.
Carla stood behind him.
"I told you," Carla said quietly, "one more incident."
Both women turned.
Sasha's heart pounded. Debbie's fists clenched.
Carla stepped inside. "Finish your shift. I'll speak to you both after. Separately."
She turned and left.
Sasha exhaled, shaking.
Debbie grabbed her apron and whispered, "You just made things worse for yourself."
Sasha replied, voice cold. "Maybe. But I'm done being quiet."