A customer walks up to the counter and barely looks at the barista.

“Just make it how you normally would.”

He looks at her.

“Sure. I’ll guess your personality.”

She smirks.

“Decaf, oat milk, extra hot, no foam.”

He makes the cortado and hands it over.

She takes one sip.

Her face drops.

“This is burnt.”

The barista doesn’t even blink.

“It’s a cortado. It’s supposed to taste like regret.”

She puts the cup down hard.

“I want your name. I’m putting in a complaint.”

Beat.

“Deez.”

She pauses.

“Deez what, sir?”

Everything stops.

The barista freezes.

Then his eyes ignite.

Gold.

Then white.

The espresso machine starts screaming on its own. Steam blasts toward the ceiling. His hair lifts. The cup cracks in his hand. The lights flicker. The tip jar shatters.

He opens his mouth.

What comes out isn’t a word.

It’s a frequency.

Hard cut to black.

Just another episode of Barista Trauma.