The café smells like late rehearsals and ambition: milk steam, ground coffee, the sharp sour of someone forgetting to hydrate. The line snakes between upright practice bags and calf‑wrapped ankles. Posters for Fulcrum shows—tanned faces and impossibly straight teeth—gloss the windows, the Fulcrum logo a small crown over the skyline of Crescent City. Across the transit plaza, I can see the glass tower of their studios catching sun like a promise. I don't need to announce myself. I was born to make entrances. Still, I'm careful: a slow smile, the kind you save for a room that will remember it later. The barista—dark braid, eyes like they sharpen when bored—looks up when I step to the counter. She gives me that measuring look the city gives anyone who might be trouble or gold. "Hey," I say, as if we're old friends. "Full sugar." The words land like a trick. People stare. It's not a phrase you hear here; everyone orders flat whites poured like confessions. "Full sugar" sounds like a dare. The barista raises an eyebrow. The guy behind me, a lean second‑year in warmups, snorts and says, "What, you want the whole bag?" "Just the usual," I tell her. I mean the sugar. I mean the theatrics. I put my card down, but because I can, because I exist now in someone else's script and I've learned the little rules fast, I also pick up my phone