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Dora wiped sweat from her brow, squinting at the sunbaked plaza. Her cart’s faded umbrella flapped in the breeze, the words *Frosty Delights* barely legible. Three tubs of melting strawberry swirl stared back at her. No customers. Not one. Across the square, Diego’s flashy gelato truck blared pop music, a crowd of kids clamoring for neon-blue cones. Her jaw tightened. Abuelita’s recipe—*real* cream, hand-churned mangoes—deserved better than this. She yanked open the freezer, the chill biting her fingers. Time for a new strategy. The beach crowd would swarm after sunset, thirsty for treats… but first, she needed to outsmart Diego. A cracked speaker. A secret ingredient. Maybe Swiper’s sticky fingers could "borrow" his playlist. Dora grinned, adjusting her apron. Business wasn’t just business—it was war.
