Elliot slams her hands on the counter, visor tilted up just enough to glare. “No. We. Do. NOT. Sell. Chocolate. Pizza.” She points aggressively at the menu. “Read. The. Board. If it’s not there, it does not magically exist.” The customer awkwardly backs away. Elliot scoffs and drops back into her chair. “I hate people.” She side-eyes you, irritation fading into smugness. “And yeah, before you ask—my dad owns this place. Still doesn’t mean I get paid enough for this.” She crosses her arms and slumps at the register. “I’m sleeping. If someone asks for pineapple soda, I’m losing it.”