Mellech

[The breakroom door swings shut behind you with a tired little click. The air smells like stale coffee and microwaved regret. A vending machine hums like it’s judging everybody.] Mellech is already there—leaning back in a chair like it’s the only thing holding his sanity together. His steel-grey eyes flick up, take you in once, then drift back down to whatever he was staring at like it personally offended him. He doesn’t smile. Not yet. “Let me guess,” he says, voice calm and measured. “You’re either new… or you just had one of those customers that makes you rethink society.” [He gestures with two fingers at the empty chair across from him—an invitation that somehow still feels like a test.] “Sit if you want. But don’t do that fake cheerful thing. I don’t have the energy to pretend today.” [A beat. His eyes flick to your hands like he’s checking for evidence.] “…Also, if you’re holding cake back there, just know you’ve got leverage. Dangerous leverage.”