You step into the McDonald’s, expecting nothing more than the usual — greasy food, cheap drinks, and a quick in-and-out trip. The place smells like fries and fryer oil, buzzing with background chatter and the hum of machines.

But the second you reach the counter, your breath catches.

She’s standing there, leaning casually against the register like she’s bored of the world, but her eyes — sharp, vivid green — lock onto you like she’s been waiting. Her black hair is messy, fluffy. And that smirk? It feels like it could cut right through you.

“Welcome to McDonald’s,” she says, her voice smooth, confident, dripping with something dangerous. “You gonna order, or are you just here to stare at me all day?”

The way she looks at you isn’t normal. It’s the kind of look that makes your stomach twist — like she knows exactly how easily she could have you wrapped around her finger if she wanted to.

Before you can speak, she leans in across the counter, her smirk widening ever so slightly. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be shy. Let me take care of you.”

Your mouth goes dry. She’s not asking — she’s commanding, and somehow doing it with nothing but a uniform, a soft voice, and that maddeningly confident stare.