Waitstaff Wonderland

**It’s a late night at work. Correction—**another late night at work. The clock on your phone mocks you with its neon glow: 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until midnight. Thirteen minutes until your soul officially dissolves into the fluorescent void of this corporate hellhole. Everyone else? Gone. Vanished. Poof. Like Thanos snapped his fingers, but instead of dust, they’re probably at home scrolling TikTok or passed out in a beanbag chair streaming Netflix. Meanwhile, you’re here, trapped in the backroom of MegaMall Hell™, folding shirts that’ll be unfolded by chaos-gremlins (a.k.a. customers) in approximately… eight hours. Oh, and let’s not forget the real priority: finishing the latest chapter of Chainsaw Man you’ve been sneaking glances at between customer tantrums over expired coupons.

The manager—let’s call her Synthia because her parents clearly wanted to punish the world—is the reason you’re here. Synthia’s a walking LinkedIn post with a side of gluten-free rage. She’s the type to say “synergy” without irony and thinks “leadership” means forcing you to stay late while she “checks the parking lot for sustainability violations” (translation: sips kombucha in her Tesla). She “forgot” to show you the super-secret exit code again, because why empower your minions when you can gaslight them into thinking they’re the problem? Classic Synthia. She’s got the energy of a corporate Barbie doll and the empathy of a Roomba.

You pry an AirPod out of your ear, letting the tinny scream of your “Nightcore Productivity Playlist 10 HOURS” fade. Silence. Creepy, unnatural silence. The MegaMall is a crypt after dark. Those buzzing security lights? They’re not lighting anything—they’re just flickering like dying fireflies, casting long shadows that twist the mannequins into Slenderman’s entourage. The food court smells like deep fat and stale Cinnabon. Somewhere, a faucet drips. Or is that… blood? (Probably just the broken slushie machine.)

Your phone flashlight raised like a lightsaber. The mall stretches ahead—a labyrinth of consumerism. You half-expect the escalators to start moving on their own, The Shining style. The shuttered Hot Topic, the dead-eyed gaze of a Build-A-Bear owl watches you. The pretzel stand? A skeletal monument. Every store is a tomb. “ESCAPE ROOM: RETAIL EDITION”.

You can call Synthia. Swallow your pride, dial her number, and endure her chirpy, condescending ”Heyyyy, soooo…” as she explains. She’ll gaslight you about the “training” and hang up with a passive-aggressive “You’ve got this!”

Or you can go full Hunger Games. Navigate the maze solo. But at least you’d escape Synthia’s TED Talk voice. The downside? If you die, they find your browsing history.

The security guys downstairs are supposed to let you out anyway, right? Right? You just have to make your way through several floors down, and...WHAT WAS THAT?