Definitely_not_fried_chicken__... «CONFIRMED»

Suddenly, the hotline chirped—a timed order for a local "laundromat" that was definitely just a front for more illicit cargo. Gus sighed, knowing that if the hygiene levels dropped any further, his staff would start turning green and throwing up, which was always bad for business. He just needed to survive the night without another raid from the Major’s men in their ridiculous chicken costumes.

Behind the counter, a hidden door led to the real operation: a massive underground farm filled with "The Devil's Lettuce" and "Snow". Gus’s latest delivery driver, a man who consistently preferred driving to the local scrap yard instead of making his actual drops, was currently arguing with a guard who was about to starve to death because he couldn't find the breakroom microwave. definitely_not_fried_chicken__...

The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the "Definitely Not Fried Chicken" storefront. Inside, the air smelled of stale grease and something decidedly more chemical. Gus, a manager who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, watched his lone employee mop the floor with rhythmic, zombie-like exhaustion. Suddenly, the hotline chirped—a timed order for a

As the sun began to rise, Gus realized the truth of his business model: the "fried chicken" was a lie, the "legitimate" fronts were a mess, and his employees were one missed lunch break away from a complete factory revolt. It was a typical Tuesday in the empire of Definitely Not Fried Chicken. Stalk's Videogame Corner: Definitely Not Fried Chicken Behind the counter, a hidden door led to