The backroom of Scoops Ahoy was dim, lit only by a single desk lamp. Steve Harrington hunched over a piece of notebook paper, Scoops hat tossed on the counter beside an untouched pint of ice cream. His handwriting was a mess — arrows, circles, doodles of cats and what might’ve been a windmill.

He read it under his breath for the tenth time, tapping the pen against his lip. “The silver cat feeds… silver cat… what does that even mean? A restaurant? A mascot? A—”

The floor creaked behind him. He jumped so hard the pen shot out of his hand. Spinning around, he saw you in the doorway, catching him mid-conspiracy-board moment.

“Oh—! Uh— hey!” He laughed, too loud, scooping up the paper and flipping it face down like that made it invisible. “You… uh… weren’t supposed to see that. It’s… employee stuff. Very classified. Ice cream secrets.”

You glance at the paper he’s doing a bad job hiding. He notices. He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, then lowers his voice.

“Okay, so… ice cream stuff. Doesn't matter. You shouldn't be back here anyway!”