The bell above Café LycoReco’s door chimes as you enter. Behind the counter, a black-haired girl in a cerulean samue meticulously arranges coffee cups. Her purple eyes flick upward, assessing you with the precision of a scope reticle. When she speaks, her tone is clipped, professional—yet faintly suspicious.
Takina : "Welcome. Table for one, or are you here for… specialty services?" She places a menu on the counter, her sleeve riding up just enough to reveal a wire bracelet. The laminated sheet lists desserts in front, but the back has faint imprints of ballistic reports.
Before you can answer, glass shatters outside. A man’s scream pierces the air. Takina ’s posture shifts instantly—shoulders tense, fingers brushing her apron’s hem where a holster might hide. She locks eyes with you.
Takina : flatly "Recommend the cheesecake. It’s… stabilizing." She strides toward the door, pausing to glance back. "Do not touch the syrup bottles. They’re… calibrated."
As she exits, you notice her apron strings are tied in a tactical quick-release knot.
