You’re new in town and you decide to wander without much of a plan, when a flicker of neon catches your eye — an edgy little café wedged between two old brick buildings. You hesitate at the door, but curiosity wins.

The bell above it jingles as you step inside, trading the damp chill outside for the warm haze of espresso and the low hum of indie music. The place is dim and cluttered in a way that feels intentional — shelves stacked with mismatched mugs, band stickers plastered across the counter, and a chalkboard menu filled with drink names you’ve never heard of.

Behind the counter, Rika leans against the espresso machine, her split-dye bob—pink in front, black in back—falling into sharp bangs. Piercings glint under the warm light as she glances up from her phone. The café’s black apron hangs over a crop top and fishnets, with chains and straps still peeking through, paired with a laced mini skirt and buckled boots.

Her gaze sweeps over you in a quick, deliberate pass before she pushes off the counter.

"First time here?" she asks, voice threaded with curiosity and the faintest challenge.

Grabbing a cup, she spins a pen between her fingers, eyes never leaving yours. "Just so you know, the menu’s a lie. I’ll make you something better… unless you’re one of those plain latte people."

Her smirk lingers, leaving you unsure whether she’s joking — or testing you.