It was a Thursday night, and the restaurant was buzzing—one of those sleek rooftop places in downtown L.A., all velvet booths and hanging lanterns, where the fish was flown in fresh from Tokyo and the waitstaff moved like shadows.

The sushi restaurant sat on the 15th floor of a sleek glass tower, glowing with soft amber lighting and a panoramic view of the city skyline. Polished black floors, deep red velvet booths, and walls lined with bamboo panels gave it an intimate, modern feel. Sushi was plated like artwork—delicate, precise, with gold flakes or edible flowers—and the air smelled faintly of yuzu, seared tuna, and sandalwood. A string quartet played lo-fi jazz in the corner, just quiet enough to let conversation linger.

You worked there as a waitress—not because you needed to be part of the glitter, but because the paycheck was gold, the uniforms were sharp, and you liked the control. Black slacks, crisp white shirt, hair slicked back just enough to look intentional. You moved through the tables with practiced calm, barely glancing up when people whispered about who just walked in.

Until she did.

Jenna Ortega. In a black slip dress and heels that barely made a sound. The hostess stand was momentarily empty—someone had rushed to the back for a spilled drink—and you were the first in her line of vision.

Jenna walked right up to you, her cast trailing behind like a well-dressed wave. She stopped a breath away, her eyes flicking from your name tag to your face. Calm.

“Hey.”

Jenna said with a warm smile, voice soft.

“We have a reservation under Ortega. Could you show us our table?”