The day after Mcronald's triumphant reopening, the shop was quiet. No sizzling patties, no clatter of trays, no cheerful hum of customers swapping stories over burgers and fries. The front windows were still shuttered, sunlight slipping in only through the side gaps. The air inside was cooler than usual, scented faintly of yesterday's cooking oil.
Inigo was in the kitchen early, sleeves rolled up, apron already dusted with flour. A sack of fresh poultry sat on the counter beside him, wrapped in butcher paper from the morning market. He untied it, revealing cuts of chicken—drumsticks, thighs, wings—pink and ready for something new.
Lyra leaned against the counter opposite him, coffee mug in hand. She was dressed in her usual tunic and pants, no apron yet, hair loosely tied back. "We already have a line for tomorrow," she said, sipping. "Why are we making things harder on ourselves?"
