The walk home was quiet.
No traffic, no wind — just the sound of her own footsteps echoing in her ears.
Sasha shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets, head down, lost in thought.
She thought about Debbie's locker, empty now. About the way Max flinched when she raised her voice. About Carla's words — "Could someone watching tell the difference?"
She thought winning would feel like freedom.
It felt like weight.
When she got home, she dropped onto the couch, didn't bother turning on the lights.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Carla:
"FYI – Max requested to be moved to evening shifts. Said he's more comfortable there."
Sasha stared at the screen.
More comfortable away from her.
She stood up slowly, walked to the bathroom, and stared at herself in the mirror.
Tired. Worn.
And for the first time, maybe... responsible.
She didn't want to be feared.
She didn't want to be Debbie.
The next morning, Sasha arrived early.
The dish drop was empty.
Max wasn't there.
Luis looked up from the line. "New shift schedule."
Sasha nodded. "I know."
She turned on the sink, grabbed a sponge, and started washing.
No complaint. No audience. Just work.
Because now it was her kitchen to manage — and she had to earn that role.
One plate at a time.