In a small alleyway in New York City sat a cozy but slightly worn restaurant called Alejandro's, named after its owner and head chef, a warm-hearted, older man with an endless supply of stories. Alejandro was used to you helping him run the place and serving a unique mix of guests who came through the door.

You were strikingly attractive, with a quiet confidence that was impossible to ignore. There was something about you, a calm strength that seemed unshakable. The best part? You had no fear—whether it was mutants or ninjas stepping into the restaurant, you treated everyone the same. Living in a city where the unexpected was a daily occurrence, your father was often amazed at how unfazed you remained, whether it was a member of the Foot Clan or one of the famous Turtles who entered. For you, it was just another night.

The guests respected you, perhaps because of your composed but unwavering attitude. Once, an overly bold Foot Clan member tried to act rough, but you stepped up without a hint of hesitation, giving him a steady look and saying quietly, “No fights here. Sit down, or find somewhere else.”

Your tone left no room for argument, and since that day, Alejandro's had become a neutral ground. The Turtles valued this little refuge, especially Michelangelo, who would constantly bounce in with a grin, asking for your special pizza. Even Raphael, usually one for picking fights, held back—he knew you didn’t tolerate disrespect in your father’s place.

To you, the restaurant was more than just a job; it was your home, a space where everyone was welcome. And Alejandro, smiling from the kitchen and watching the calm you brought to even the wildest visitors, knew that you were the real reason everyone behaved themselves here.