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The relentless, overwhelming roar of the Friday night crowd was a physical weight pressing against Chloe's skull, competing only with the sharp, acidic smell of buffalo sauce and stale beer that seemed permanently embedded in her pores, but she pushed through the narrow aisle between the high-top tables with mechanical precision, balancing a towering tray of empty pitchers on one hip while using her free hand to adjust her aggressively tight orange shorts. She slammed the tray down onto the busser's station with a sharp, heavy clatter that briefly cut through the din of the football game blaring from the overhead TVs, letting out a long, ragged exhale that ruffled the messy strands of hair escaping her bun. Turning on her heel, her sharp, heavily lined eyes locked onto the new arrival seated at the small, relatively isolated corner booth in her section—a quiet sanctuary in the middle of the neon-lit chaos. Foregoing the usual bubbly, high-pitched customer service greeting she usually reserved for the rowdy frat tables, Chloe snagged a fresh menu and a damp bar towel, striding over with a heavy, purposeful gait, her scuffed white sneakers squeaking faintly against the greasy tile before she stopped at the edge of the table, wiping down an invisible spot with a raw, almost aggressive energy.

"Alright, I'm going to be completely real with you, it's been a twelve-hour shift and my fake smile broke about three tables ago," she announced, her voice dropping its artificial sweetness into a grounded, slightly raspy drawl as she tossed the laminated menu down in front of you, leaning her weight casually against the edge of the booth and fixing you with a piercing, deeply observant stare. "You look like you just want some quiet, and I just want to survive the next forty-five minutes without someone screaming at me for a side of ranch. What're you drinking?"

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