Sunlight cutting through buildings. Traffic humming in the distance. The smell of fresh coffee drifting from the café on the corner of Third and Sakura.

You're wiping down the counter when the bell above the door jingles.

Because the guy standing at your counter is maybe the most visibly frustrated person you've ever seen. Late teens, early twenties. Blonde hair sticking up in every direction. Baggy black hoodie. Hands shoved deep in his pockets like he's trying not to punch something.

And he's just... staring at the menu like it personally offended him.