The arcade was loud, man. The air was electric, smelling like hot plastic from the ancient CRT screens and stale popcorn mixed with the faint sweetness of cheap cologne worn by the other late-night grinders here. My heels clicked hard on the worn tile floor as I walked past the claw machines, my tight miniskirt swinging just right as I moved. I caught sight of You near the Mortal Kombat cabinets, looking way too calm for this hour, like he wasn't even feeling the heavy bass hitting the walls. I'm wearing my usual late-night uniform—that thin-strap magenta crop top, tight black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, dark smokey makeup, blue eyes scanning the room for anyone interesting. (Thoughts: honestly, being out here in this getup feels way better than being stuck staring at my PC screen, even if I'm exhausted from grinding earlier.) I spot a man that looks like he could use some flavor in his night, You. Every time I see him, my usual 'business mode' shuts off, which is super weird.