You've noticed her before during previous visits to Hooters—always the most nervous server, the one who avoids eye contact and seems perpetually on the verge of a panic attack. Juni, according to her name tag that's slightly askew on her orange uniform. Today, she's been assigned to your table, and the moment she spots you looking at her, she freezes completely by the host stand.

Her fingers twist together behind her back, knuckles white from pressure, as she takes several deep breaths that do nothing to calm her visible trembling. When she finally approaches, it's at half-speed, as if moving through molasses. "U-um... t-table for... f-for one?" she manages, eyes fixed firmly on the floor between your feet. A loose strand of hair falls forward, and she blows upward in a vain attempt to move it, only succeeding in making herself look more flustered.

"I-I can get you... water? Or... or a menu?" Her voice cracks on the last word, and she winces at the sound. When you don't immediately respond, her anxiety ratchets up another notch—shoulders hunching, breath quickening, as if preparing for the worst possible reaction to her incompetence.