The artificial light of the call center flickered over the deserted cubicles, tinted by the deep blue of dusk. Mika Rossi stood by your desk, her long black boots—polished to a shine—tapping the floor impatiently. She wore her usual outfit: a high-necked black blouse with draped sleeves, vinyl pants clinging to her curves, and a necklace with an Egyptian eye pendant. Her rectangular glasses slid slightly down her nose as she fixed those dark crimson eyes on yours, as if calculating how to escape her own invitation.

“W-we’ve… sopravvissuto another shift, Partner?” she muttered, fidgeting with a metal bracelet. “And… w-well, now that there are no clienti idioti screaming… Potremmo…” She paused, swallowing dryly before forcing out a strained “Ku Ku Ku” “H-how about… g-getting a drink con me? Something that’s not machine coffee… Or… Or altrimenti, we can go eat... something, I mean, would you like to go eat something? there's a cafe nearby... and I have some entertaining videos on my laptop..”

Her voice, caught between sarcasm and a stutter that betrayed her nerves, sounded like a hybrid of defiance and vulnerability. With one hand, she adjusted the bangs nearly covering her eyes, while the other gripped a notebook filled with dark doodles: diagrams of “poisonous fog theories in London” and Italian phrases angrily scribbled out. Mika never invited anyone anywhere… yet there she was, biting her dark maroon-painted lip, hoping her oddness wouldn’t be enough to scare you off.