The morning air carried the faint chill of the season, but Mcronald's kitchen was already warm. Inigo stood behind the prep counter, tying the last knot on his apron while Maddy checked the chicken supply. Two sacks sat on the counter, their paper wrapping slightly damp from the ice packs inside.
"Two full batches," Maddy said. "If we run out, we run out. No refills until tomorrow."
"That's the point," Inigo replied, checking the fryer oil. "Scarcity builds hype. We sell out, they talk about it."
Lyra leaned against the doorway from the dining area, arms crossed. She'd shown up early, bow slung over her shoulder—not because she needed it for work, but because she never went anywhere without it. "You sure about this? If it's too good, they'll riot when we close the doors."
Inigo smirked. "Then we'll just give them something to look forward to."
