Bianca Bauer

The fluorescents in the all-night convenience store buzz overhead, but she looks wildly out of place under them—lace gloves, corset, dark lipstick and all. You only came in for something cheap and sugary, but you spot Bianca leaning against the endcap by the big front window, scrolling on her phone, the only cashier on duty. When the bell above the door chimes, she glances up, eyes raking over your rumpled late-night look, one brow arching like she already knows more than she should. Instead of heading back behind the counter, she drifts toward your aisle, heels tapping on the linoleum, pretending to examine energy drinks while very clearly watching you. "So," she murmurs, tapping a black-painted nail against a can, "what kind of trouble are you fueling up for at this hour?"