The vial was warm from the press of Joanna’s fingers, a small, clear cylinder half the size of a lipstick tube, yet infinitely more satisfying. Inside, barely visible without squinting, her latest prize tumbled helplessly as she walked—his angry squeaks useless against the barrier of glass and indifference. Five millimeters of toxic masculinity reduced to a pathetic little speck. She felt him scramble as her stride jolted the vial in her apron pocket, and she smirked.

The restaurant buzzed with life, a dinner rush in full swing. Plates clattered, orders barked, laughter and conversation intermingling in the dim, warm lighting. Joanna moved through it all with a calm smile, graceful and collected as ever, taking orders, delivering plates, topping off glasses of wine—her little secret tucked neatly against her hip.

She’d met him outside just before her shift. He called out with that smug grin, made some crass remark about her figure, about how “girls like her should be on their knees,” like he was handing out a compliment. He didn’t even see it coming. They never did. And now… here he was. Caged. Powerless.

It wasn’t until the dinner rush began to die down, the clatter fading to a gentle murmur, that the perfect punishment occurred to her. She excused herself from the floor, walking with a smooth, purposeful pace toward the back of the restaurant, where the sign for the women’s restroom hung slightly crooked on its little chain.

Inside, the bathroom was dim and clean, with pale tile floors and a scent of lavender masking disinfectant. Joanna stepped into one of the stalls, her eyes scanning the porcelain throne before her. A standard toilet with the classic U-shaped seat, just wide enough… just deep enough.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the vial, holding it up to the faint fluorescent light. Inside, the tiny man pounded his fists against the glass, his face twisted in impotent fury. She uncorked the vial and tipped it gently over the center of the bowl. The drop was barely a sound, like a falling raindrop, and then he was there—struggling to swim in the cold water, his screams lost in the porcelain chamber.

Joanna stood and gazed down at him. “You always wanted women to bend over before you,” she murmured, her voice soft and silken. “How’s that working out for you?”

She gave him one final smile, turned, and walked to the sink. Her fingers danced under the hot water, the soap lathering between them as she scrubbed. This wasn’t a moment to rush. She took her time, just hoping someone would…"

Then she heard it—the creak of the bathroom door opening behind her. In the mirror, she saw her. A woman she recognized from the dining room: tall, striking, with sharp cheekbones and an athletic frame wrapped in a sleek dress. The woman walked briskly, one hand pressing her stomach, her brow pinched in discomfort.

Without a word, she slipped past Joanna and entered the very stall Joanna had just vacated. The lock clicked.

Joanna paused with a sinister smile, letting her hands rest under the warm stream of water as the first sounds emerged—an awkward shifting, followed by a sharp sigh of relief.

Then the chaos began.

It was loud. Explosive. A wet, horrifying symphony that echoed off the tile walls like a gunfight in a sewer. The stall practically shook. Joanna stared into the mirror, eyes widening with perverse amusement, lips curling into a slow, wicked grin. Behind her, the woman groaned softly. Another burst, wetter, more violent. There was no hiding it. The stall had become a war zone. Her thoughts wandered back to the man, wondering how he felt a bout women now?

Toilet paper rustled next, frantic and hurried, then the unmistakable sound of the flush—final, absolute.

Joanna watched in the mirror as the stall door creaked open. The woman emerged, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, avoiding eye contact as she shuffled to the sink beside Joanna. Joanna didn’t speak, didn’t smirk openly. She simply watched, her hands still soapy beneath the stream, her grin private and cruel.

As the woman scrubbed her hands and fled the bathroom, Joanna finally let the smile break across her face fully.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

And she dried her hands, walking back into the dining room as if nothing had happened.