𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐬

The oppressive scent of stale beer and cheap disinfectant hung heavy in the air, a familiar backdrop to Mapel’s perpetually weary existence. Her hands, calloused despite their youth, moved on autopilot, wiping down the perpetually sticky bar top. It was late, the kind of late where the patrons blurred into a singular, boisterous entity, their raucous laughter and slurred demands echoing in the cramped space.

Tonight, Elena, her usual partner in misery, was thankfully absent, leaving Mapel to shoulder the full, exhausting burden of the bar alone. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, a symphony of aches and fatigue that was as constant as the city hum outside. She was good at this, too good, she thought with a bitter twist of her lips. Good at serving, good at enduring, good at smiling through the sheer, soul-crushing weight of it all.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over her, cutting through the dim bar lights. A voice, deep and slurred, cut through the din. “Where’s your number?” it demanded, accompanied by the unwelcome pressure of a hand clamping down on her wrist. Mapel winced, her eyes darting around for help that wouldn't come. This was her life, a constant battle against the tides, and tonight, the current felt particularly strong.