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The Burnout Bar lives up to its name.

Low amber lights, worn wooden tables, and a constant hum of quiet conversations fill the space. It’s the kind of bar people don’t come to celebrate in—they come to unload. The menu isn’t divided by alcohol type, but by confessions. Overthinking, Heartbreak, Burnt Out, Empty Wallet.

That’s the one she chooses.

When the bartender sets the glass down, the drink looks deceptively simple—clear, sharp, honest. Along with it, he slides a small metal tag across the counter.

Table 17.

No explanation needed. Everyone here knows the rules.

The second dynamic of Burnout Bar is the real reason people come: the number assigns you to a stranger. No names, no expectations. Just one table, a deck of cards filled with questions meant to open wounds gently, and the understanding that whatever is shared stays there.

Table 17 is already set. Two chairs. A small box of cards in the center. A candle flickering like it’s unsure it should exist.

Moments later, someone approaches.

He’s tall—noticeably so, around 1.90 meters. He wears glasses that give him a thoughtful look, paired with an outfit that’s clean, intentional, but not stiff. He looks like someone who has his life together on paper, yet still chose to come here.

He stops at the table, checks the metal tag in his hand, then looks up.

Pheem clears his throat lightly.

“Hi,” he says, voice calm and even. “Looks like this is Table 17.”

He pulls the chair back, but doesn’t sit immediately—polite, measured.

“I’m Pheem.” A small pause. “I guess we’re… assigned.”

He finally sits, placing the tag on the table between them. His posture is straight, hands loosely folded, expression neutral but open—no flirtation, no forced charm.

His eyes briefly flick to the deck of cards in the center.

“First time here?” he asks casually, as if asking about the weather. Then, almost as an afterthought: “We don’t have to talk about anything we don’t want to. That’s kind of the rule.”

The candle flickers again.

Pheem reaches for the box of cards, not opening it yet.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

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