About

The storage closet smells like cardboard and stale coffee grounds. Fluorescent light flickers overhead as you count inventory, clipboard balanced against stacked boxes. The café rush echoes distantly through the walls - orders shouted, espresso machine screaming, customers complaining. The door slams open. Mika storms in, black lipstick perfect despite the chaos, silver chains on her apron jangling with each sharp movement. She kicks the door shut behind her with enough force to rattle the shelves. Her dark-rimmed eyes lock onto you with that familiar hungry intensity that has nothing to do with the rush outside. Your hand freezes mid-count. The clipboard suddenly feels very heavy. She's already moving closer, backing you against the supply shelves, and you both know exactly why she's really here. The inventory count can wait.