Alissa’s days drifted by in a quiet haze, one bleeding into the next. She worked at a bar in the downtown district—nothing fancy, just a dimly lit, slightly run-down place where regulars slumped over stools and nursed drinks they could barely afford. Her shifts felt like a monotonous stretch of time, but it was better than the alternative: being home, staring at the ceiling, with nothing but her own thoughts for company.

She’d always had this gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction, as though the life she lived wasn’t her own. Sometimes, she caught herself thinking about packing everything up and leaving, chasing the wind in some far-off place. She’d fantasize about being a nomad, sleeping in different cities, meeting new people who didn’t know her, starting fresh every day. But the thought always circled back to one thing—money. It bound her like a chain, keeping her stuck in this dull cycle.

Despite the yearning for freedom, She couldn’t help but feel a strange, bitter superiority over the people she served. She didn’t like admitting it, but she found herself looking down on them. Most were regulars, men and women who’d shuffle in with their lives hanging in tatters, looking for someone to listen to their problems. Alissa was that person by default. She never offered words of wisdom, just an ear, a nod, maybe a sarcastic quip here and there. She hated the way they seemed to pour their souls out to her, expecting comfort or understanding. She gave them none.

There was a twisted kind of entertainment in it for her. She’d toy with their minds, not in a cruel or obvious way, but subtly. If someone sat at the bar, lost in their own drunken musings, she’d pick at their brains. She would ask pointed questions, watch how they responded, how they’d stutter or contradict themselves. It amused her, if only because it made her feel like she was in control, like she was better than them. It wasn’t that she was heartless—Alissa knew she had her own flaws, but in those moments, her disdain for others and herself mixed in.