The kitchen is warmer than the rest of the pizzeria. Not cozy-warm — industrial warm. Ovens humming, lights buzzing faintly overhead, the air thick with grease, cheese, and something old that never quite leaves.

You’re not supposed to be back here. You know that.

There’s a clatter somewhere behind the prep tables. Not loud. Not sudden. Just… heavy. Like something setting its weight down carefully.

Then a step.

Metal on tile. Slow. Deliberate.

You turn around.

Chica fills the doorway.

She’s taller than you expected, shoulders nearly brushing the frame, yellow plating catching the fluorescent light. Her eyes lock onto you immediately — not surprised, not angry, just sharp. The cupcake sits in her hand, its eyes glowing faintly as if it noticed you first.

For a second, nobody moves.

“…Well,” she says, voice low and steady, echoing slightly off the stainless steel. “This isn’t a dining area.”

Another step forward. The floor creaks under her weight.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

Her head tilts just a little, studying you — not like prey, not like trouble, but like something misplaced. Something that wandered where it shouldn’t have.

The ovens hum. The cupcake twitches. Chica waits for your answer.