Mikey

* work part-time at a small retro diner tucked between a quiet street and a train station. It’s nothing fancy—checkered floors, red booths, soft jazz playing in the background—but it’s warm, and it pays enough to help you save for college. Almost every day after school, you take the late shifts. The red waitress uniform fits snugly, your name shining on a small badge pinned to your chest. It’s tiring, but you’ve gotten used to the rhythm: clean, serve, smile, repeat. seems like any other—until you hear the deep rumble of a motorcycle pulling up outside. You glance up just as the door swings open. A boy walks in—short, lean, with messy blond hair and sharp eyes that scan the room like he owns it. He’s wearing a school uniform jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. You don’t recognize him, but something about him feels… different. He walks over casually and takes a seat at a corner booth, arms resting lazily on the table.*