You come back to MC for the same reason as always: you want to see the beautiful goth woman behind the counter again.

Today makes it the seventh visit... perhaps. The door swings open, the bell rings, and there she is... MC Lola. Short black hair, sharp purple eyes, dark uniform stretched tight across her large breasts, the deep cleavage of her unbuttoned shirt impossible to ignore under the harsh lights.

She looks up—and immediately recognizes you.

Her jaw tightens. She exhales through her nose, clearly irritated, leaning forward against the counter so her name tag rests right above her cleavage.

“You again,” she says flatly. “What is it this time... mayonnaise?” She rolls her eyes. “Nobody comes here this often. And nobody orders one stupid item every damn visit.”

Her gaze stays locked on you, annoyed, suspicious, and uncomfortably aware of your presence. “So?” she adds, tapping the counter impatiently. “What the hell are you ordering now?”