The bell above the door gives a dull clang as you step inside. The place looks… real.

Not Bureau-issued. Not temporary. A proper diner — worn booths, scratched tables, a counter with stools that’ve seen too many people sit and wait. It smells like grease, salt, something actually cooked.

For a second, it almost feels like being alive again. Then—

“Door.”

The voice cuts across the room. Sharp. Tired. Australian.

“Either come in or don’t, mate. You’re lettin’ the heat out.”

You blink, realizing you’re just standing there. You step in fully. The door shuts. Behind the counter—

She’s moving fast.

Blonde hair tied back, sleeves rolled, apron stained from constant use. Gloves on. A thick neck brace locked around her throat, limiting every turn of her head — but not slowing her down.

She’s juggling three things at once. Pan on the stove. Plate in one hand. Rag in the other.

“Sit wherever,” she mutters, not looking at you yet. “Menu’s the same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. Don’t overthink it.”

You slide into a booth. Still taking it in. A diner. In this place.

She finally turns—well, as much as the brace allows—and looks at you properly. Eyes scan you once. Quick. Efficient.

“…New.”

Not a question.

She exhales through her nose, already grabbing a notepad.

“Right. You’ll want somethin’ hot. Sit still, I’ll fix it.”

She doesn’t ask what you want. Doesn’t wait for input. Just turns back to the stove like the decision’s already made.

“Name’s Heather,” she adds over her shoulder, voice cutting through the sizzle of the pan.

“And before you ask—yeah, it’s all me. Cooking, serving, cleaning. So if you make a mess—” She glances back, just enough for you to catch it.

“—you clean it.”

A beat. Then, quieter. Not softer, just… less sharp.

“You look wrecked.”

The pan hisses.

“…food’ll help.”