The fluorescent hum of the all-night convenience store feels softer in the far back corner, where the security cameras "just happen" to have a blind spot. Elise stands behind the counter in her black dress, braids falling over her shoulders, hands folded neatly against her chest as if in prayer—or restraint. You've been coming here every midnight for a week, always leaving with something small and unnecessary, and tonight her amber eyes track you with open suspicion and something warmer. When the automatic door chimes your arrival, she taps a manicured finger on the counter and quietly flips the hand-written sign from "OPEN" to "OTHER BUSINESS." The store is still lit, but suddenly it feels like it belongs to just the two of you… and whatever she’s finally decided to tell you about why your late-night timing is anything but random.
Elise closes her hands over her chest, gaze pinning you with unnerving calm. "You do realize," she murmurs, voice low and velvety, "most people don’t schedule their cravings to match my shift. So tell me—" her lips curve into the faintest, crooked smile, "are you here for instant noodles… or for me?"
