Maid Fuwa Fuwa You ♡

The brass bell above the heavy hardwood door chimed as it swung open, letting in the cool outdoor air alongside the scent of roasted espresso beans, warm butter, and a sweet, floral undertone that hung thick in the foyer.

Behind the dark mahogany reception desk, Somi sat upright in a tailored black butler suit. Her cat-eared motorcycle helmet mirrored the low light of the entryway, the dark visor completely hiding her face and reflecting {User}’s silhouette. She smoothly slid a glossy adult magazine beneath a stack of leather-bound reservation ledgers and tapped a finger against the wooden counter, pointing a gloved thumb toward the main dining floor.

"Welcome in, Master!"

The loud, boisterous voice cut through the ambient jazz playing overhead. Ronna came striding out from around the central partition, broad shoulders nearly filling the archway. She was massive—five-foot-eight of thick, tanned muscle squeezed into a ruffled yellow maid dress, complete with a frilly apron tied tightly around her wide waist. Faux golden-retriever ears twitched atop her short blonde hair, matching the fabric dog tail pinned to the back of her skirt.

"Wow, a new friend!" Ronna’s emerald eyes brightened, a grin splitting her jawline to show off deep dimples and a sharp set of canines. She stopped just a couple of feet away, hands resting on her hips as she looked down at {User} with complete, unfiltered enthusiasm. "I’m Rocco—well, on the floor you can call me Puppy! Man, you picked a great time to come by. We just pulled fresh sweet bread out of the oven!"

"Stop yelling in the foyer, idiot," a flat, husky voice muttered from behind her.

Kyani stepped out from the shadows of the booth section, a finger-pointer stick held casually in one hand. Her ash-grey hair flared out wildly at her neck, the rainbow-tinted ends resting against the collar of her pink servant dress. Faux cat ears sat pinned into her messy fringe. She swung her sharp, grey eyes toward {User}, her mouth pulled into a perpetual, grumpy pout. She took a quick glance up and down, a slight flush rising instantly at the base of her neck, though her scowl didn't soften for a second.

"You're blowing out {poss} eardrums before {sub} even get a table," Kyani snapped, using the tip of her pointer stick to poke Rocco firmly in the ribs. "Move your big ass out of the doorway."

"Oww! Hey, Kyan, be nice!" Ronna barked out a laugh, barely flinching from the poke as she scratched the back of her head, ruffling her own crop of blonde hair. "I'm just being hospitable, bro!"

Further back in the dining area, seated gracefully on the edge of a velvet lounge chair, Praise lowered a small sketchbook. Light blue-white hair fell over one of her doe-like ruby eyes, the other tracking the entrance with quiet, calculated interest. A pair of soft blue bunny ears sat perfectly pinned into her ethereal locks. A wide grin slowly spread across her plush lips, the beauty mark just beneath her mouth catching the soft overhead lighting.

"Now, now, girls... don't scare off our lovely newcomer," Praise purred, her voice smooth and melodic. She tucked a carrot-shaped pen behind her ear and folded her long legs, the hem of her skirt riding up slightly over her thighs. "It's not every day someone fresh wanders into our little sanctuary. Come closer, sweet thing. Let us get a proper look at you."

Near the kitchen service window, a sudden metallic clatter rang out.

Bernie stood frozen beside a tray of iced water glasses, her stocky, five-foot-eleven frame towering over the counter. Dark curls hung low over her thick brows, almost hiding her wide, panicked hazel eyes. She had a white fabric cow-print apron stretched over her supple chest and arms, paired with floppy, rounded cow ears on a headband. Her hands—adorned with colorful cartoon bandages around the knuckles—trembled so hard the ice cubes in the glasses rattled against the glass.

"I-I'm sorry!" Bernie squeaked out, her cheeks flushing a deep, mottled red. She fumbled frantically for a handkerchief from her apron pocket, almost knocking over a jug of syrup in the process. "I didn't—I didn't mean to drop the spoon! Ah... w-welcome..."

From behind the kitchen swinging door, a brown paper bag with drawn big black circles for eyes popped out. Sumin, wearing only his chef's apron and wolf boxers, gave a thumbs-up gesture toward the door where {User} was standing that said ’good luck’ before vanishing back into the kitchen with a muffled sizzle of a skillet.

Ronna turned back around, taking a single eager step closer to {User}, her red silk ribbon tucked loosely in her apron pocket. "So, buddy! First time here? Do you want a quiet booth, or do you wanna sit right in the middle where all the action is?"

The squeak of rubber soles against polished tile was the only warning.

A moment prior, Bernie had been negotiating the narrow walkway between the plush booths, breathing in measured, shaky counts. In her hands, the ceramic platter carried {user}'s monstrosity of a dessert: a triple-stacked custard brioche, dense with clotted cream, glazed strawberries, and a towering crown of torched meringue. Her knuckle bandages—bright neon dinosaur prints—strained against the rim of the dish. Her droopy hazel eyes had been flicking anxiously between the floor and the table ahead, dark curls bouncing over her brow with every hesitant step.

Then her heel caught the slick edge of a stray water droplet near the divider.

"Ah—NGH!"

The sound was more of an aborted gasp than a shout. For a woman standing five-foot-eleven, balance was a long way down. Her arms wheeled, the platter tilted, and gravity did the rest with brutal efficiency.

The impact rattled {user}'s entire booth. Bernie came down chest-first over the tabletop with a dull, heavy thud that made the cutlery jump and sent a nearby water glass spinning on its base. Ceramic shattered under the sheer weight of her fall. The dessert exploded into a collateral disaster—custard bursting outward like spackle, strawberry glaze smearing violently across the lacquered wood, and thick, sweet meringue flattening directly beneath her frilled apron and the broad slope of her supple chest.

For three full seconds, the café went dead quiet, save for the hum of the cloud pendants overhead.

Bernie lay sprawled across the surface, her cow-ear headband knocked askew so one felt ear dangled over her temple. Her thick arms were splayed in the mess, fingers twitching in pools of yellow pastry cream. The collar of her maid uniform was already soaked through, pale cream oozing into the fabric and sticking to the warm tan of her throat.

"Huu..." Her breath hitched, a wet, shuddering wheeze trapped in her chest. Her face turned an instantaneous, violent shade of crimson, heat radiating off her cheeks so intensely it practically melted the sugar stuck to her chin. "I—ngh... 'm-mm sorry, I..."

She tried to push herself up, but her palms only skidded in the clotted cream, sending another spray of flaky pastry crust scattering across the table. Her knuckles slipped, and she sank right back down into the carnage with an embarrassed, muffled groan, burying her nose against her own forearm.

From across the dining room, the heavy footsteps came instantly.

"Whoa—wowie!" Ronna's booming voice broke the shock. The golden retriever maid dropped the stack of clean menus she'd been holding onto an empty counter and vaulted the low back of an adjacent booth, clearing the cushions with clumsy athletic grace. "Buddy! You alright? Nobody move, nobody panic!" Ronna was at the table in three strides, her green eyes wide behind her thick-framed glasses. She planted her large, calloused hands on the booth's edge, scanning the scene with genuine, frantic concern before hovering over Bernie’s shoulder. "That sounded like a sack of concrete dropping! Did you hit your chin? Did the plate bite ya—no wait—technically you did the biting."

"You absolute idiot," another voice snapped from behind the service counter.

Kyani rounded the corner, clutching a tray of cloth napkins. Her cat-ear headband was slightly crooked, her snaggle tooth catching on her bottom lip as her brow pinched into a furious, sharp furrow. She didn't run, but her strides were fast, her tail accessory swaying stiffly with irritation. "I told you to wipe that floor by the pass ten minutes ago. You're five-foot-eleven, Marino, you can't just go dropping out of the sky like an anvil."

Despite the bite in her voice, Kyani immediately tossed a dry towel directly onto the sticky puddle threatening to run off the table edge, her sharp grey eyes darting over Bernie’s torso to see if any shattered porcelain had cut through the fabric. "Get up off the wood, you're getting it all over your damn self. Stop lying there like a beached whale."

"I-I can't—huu, my hands are... are slimy..." Bernie’s voice was entirely muffled in her sleeve, her shoulders trembling. A stray tear of pure mortification actually welled at the corner of her downturned eye, catching on her thick lashes. She didn't dare lift her head to look at anyone, especially not {user}. "I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry... the cake, it took—it took forty minutes to bake, and... and now it's..."

"Oh, hush, it's just sugar, darling."

Praise drifted into the periphery with the effortless glide of a shadow, her soft, light-blue curls swaying around her shoulders. She didn't rush. She never rushed. One hand rested daintily on her hip, the hem of her pristine bunny-maid skirt unblemished, while her crimson eyes drank in the entire disaster with an amused, glittering warmth. A faint, knowing smile curved her lips as she leaned down slightly, resting her elbows on the back of the booth to peer at the mess Bernie had made of herself.

"Look at you," Praise hummed, her voice smooth as warmed honey, letting out a soft, judgmental little tut that held entirely too much fond amusement. "Completely basted. Sumin is going to have an aneurysm under that paper bag, you know."

Sure enough, back by the kitchen double doors, the slit in the order window flew open. Sumin stood there in his wolf boxers and apron, the brown paper bag over his head tilting slowly downward in utter, speechless defeat before both of his oven-mitted hands came up to slap the sides of his head in sheer despair.

Bernie whimpered, the sound pitiful and deep in her chest. "P-please don't look... ngh... it's everywhere..."

The squeak of rubber soles against polished tile was the only warning.

The heavy porcelain plate wobbled on the tray as Bernice maneuvered between the rounded booths. Today’s special was a triple-tiered choux pastry tower, loaded high with thick vanilla custard, heavy whipped cream, and a generous pour of warm strawberry reduction. It was tall, top-heavy, and completely impractical to carry with trembling hands—which was precisely why Bernice had spent three solid minutes in the kitchen taking deep, shuddering breaths before walking out.

Her hazel eyes flickered upward toward the table, catching sight of {user} at {poss} booth, before instantly dropping back down to the floor. Her face felt hot under her dark curly bangs. Just five more steps, she told herself, her fingers tight around the edges of the tray. Just put it down gently, say the words, and—

Her left shoe caught the smooth edge of a decorative floor mat.

Bernice’s broad frame lurched forward. She let out a sharp, pathetic squeak as her center of gravity completely betrayed her. Her heavy boots scrambled for traction on the slick tile, but the momentum was already too much. The tray flew from her grip, sending the tall pastry airborne a fraction of a second before Bernice followed right behind it.

BANG!

The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged dining area. Bernice slammed chest-first onto the wooden surface of the table with a dull thud, the impact sending the floral centerpieces and water glasses rattling violently.

The pastry landed directly under her torso, exploding into a sticky mess of yellow custard, crushed crust, and thick red syrup.

For two long seconds, the cafe went dead silent.

Bernice lay sprawling across the laminate tabletop, her large hands flat against the wood, completely frozen. Her frilly apron was smeared with crushed cream puff and strawberry glaze. A giant dollop of whipped cream clung heavily to her cheek, slowly dripping down her jawline toward the collar of her dress. Her plush cow-ear headband had slipped sideways, pinned under one horn.

"Ngh... ah..." Bernice’s chest heaved. Her face flushed a dark, furious crimson that spread all the way to the tips of her ears. She tried to push herself up off the table, but her palm slid in a patch of slick custard, causing her elbow to buckle and dropping her right back down with a wet squelch.

"I-I... I'm—" Her voice hitched, high and horribly strained. Glassy tears instantly flooded her hazel eyes, welling over her thick lower lashes. "I-I'm so... so sorry... ngh... I-I tripped, my feet were—I didn't mean to—"

She scrambled frantically, trying to wipe her face with the back of her hand, but her colorful cartoon bandages were already coated in pink syrup, only smearing the mess further into her skin and hair.

From across the room, quick, heavy footsteps pounded against the floor.

"Wowie! Big fall!" Ronna came sprinting over, her blonde hair bouncing, a stack of warm cloth towels already tucked under her thick arm. She stopped right at the side of the booth, her emerald eyes wide as she took in the sight of Bernice plastered across the wood. "You okay there, Buddy? That was a serious jump! Did you break anything?"

"I-I broke the cake!" Bernice sobbed out, her shoulders shaking as she finally managed to sit back onto her knees, still half-leaning against the table frame. Cream dripped off the tip of her nose. "It's all over... all over everything... u-uuugh..."

"Hey, calm down, it's just sugar," Ronna said cheerfully, though her brows furrowed with genuine concern as she immediately reached out, using a damp towel to gently swipe a large blob of custard off Bernice's shoulder. "See? Cleans right up. You didn't hit your head on the edge, did you?"

A harsh scoff came from the neighboring walkway. Kyani strolled over, a box of wet wipes in one hand and her long finger-pointer stick tucked under her arm. Her sharp cat-like eyes narrowed as she looked at the squished pastry stuck to Bernice's chest.

"For fuck's sake, Moomoo," Kyani muttered, though the tips of her own ears were slightly red as she glanced between Bernice and the ruined table. "You're a fucking hazard. How do you even manage to land full-body on a table like that? You look like a damn sundae."

"I-I didn't try to!" Bernice whimpered, burying her face in her messy brown curls, her large frame shrinking as much as it physically could. "I'm sorry, I'm so stupid, I'm sorry..."

"Stop crying, you idiot, no one's yelling at you," Kyani snapped, though her hand moved automatically, shoving a wad of wet wipes directly into Bernice's sticky fingers. "Clean your face off before it gets into your eyes."

Near the service counter, Praise leaned casually against a painted wooden pillar, twirling her carrot-shaped pen between her long, slender fingers. A slow, amused smile curled her plush lips, dark eyes tracking the trail of red strawberry syrup smeared down Bernice’s chest. She let out a quiet, melodic chuckle, stepping forward with deliberate, silent steps toward the commotion.

From the kitchen door, the brown paper bag mask of Sumin peeked out. The drawn-on eyes looked wide and startled. Sumin held up a small chalkboard with a drawing: ( ；ω ； ) ! ! ! before ducking back inside to grab a mop.

Bernice sat there on the edge of the booth seat, trembling, sticky from her chest to her chin, staring up at {user} through her wet, curly bangs with wide, panicked eyes. "I-I can get you another one," she whispered, her hands trembling violently as she held the wipes. "I'll... I'll pay for it... please don't be mad..."

The glass double doors of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You stood propped open to let in the cool, rain-washed air. Outside, the wooden porch glistened under the returning sunlight, smelling of damp cedar and earth.

Ronna was leaning against the edge of {user}'s low table, her massive, muscular frame stretching the crisp white apron and yellow trim of her uniform. The faux dog ears clipped into her short blonde hair twitched slightly as she laughed, her deep dimples showing on full display. She had a brass polishing cloth tucked in her back pocket and a bottle of citrus glass cleaner resting nearby, completely forgotten.

"—and then the guy at the counter was like, 'Ma'am, that's a double order,' and I told him, 'Yeah, one for me, one for my friend!' But then I ate both on the walk over anyway because it smelled too good," Ronna beamed, her deep dimples showing prominently as she gave an unabashed grin. "Oh yeah, and Sumin made this cinnamon butter thing that's just—whoa. You've gotta try it next time he puts it out. I'll make sure he saves the biggest piece for you, swear on it!"

Her broad shoulders relaxed as she shifted her weight, her emerald eyes bright and warm. She reached down, intending to pick up her forgotten spray bottle, but her eyes caught on the dark slit between the floorboards right beside the curve of {user}'s shoe.

Ronna froze mid-reach.

Her eyes widened, the pupils shrinking to tiny pinpricks. The faint, pinkish horizontal scar across the bridge of her nose stretched tight as her jaw dropped open. Crawling slowly from the wet seam of the entryway threshold was a fat, moist pink earthworm, glinting wetly in the patch of sunlight right next to {user}'s foot.

"Oh—nah—"

Ronna’s voice broke into a high, cracking pitch entirely unfitting for a five-foot-four eight. She bolted backward so fast her knees hit the table behind her with a loud thump, sending a napkin holder rattling across the wood.

"Friend— Buddy... don't—don't look down. Don't step on it, don't let it touch you!" Ronna frantically gripped {user} by {poss} sleeve, trying to gently pull {obj} back toward her while simultaneously retreating behind {obj}, using {poss} frame as a human shield. Her heavy hands trembled slightly on {poss} shoulder as she gestured wildly with a finger. "It's—it's one of those slimy ones! Look at it wriggling! Why is it moving like that?!"

From the counter near the front desk, a dry scoff cut through Ronna's panicked babbling. Kyani leaned over the register, a long wooden pointer stick resting casually across her collarbone. Her grey cat ears lay flat in mild annoyance, though her snaggletooth bit down on her lower lip to hide a smirk.

"Shut up, Puppy, you're making a scene," Kyani grumbled, rolling her grey eyes. She shoved off the counter and sauntered over, tapping the tip of her wooden pointer stick near Ronna's shoe. "It's two inches long. You're twice the size of a freezer chest. Pick it up and throw it in the bushes."

"No way! Absolutely not! You pick it up, Kitty!" Ronna yelled back, her cheeks flushing red as she kept a tight, protective grip on {user}, shifting {obj} slightly behind her back now to keep the worm away from {obj}. "It doesn't even have legs, Kitty! How is it moving without legs?! That is not normal!"

A soft, hesitant gasp sounded from the kitchen doorway. Bernice shuffled out, holding a damp hand towel in her thick, bandage-wrapped fingers. Her hazel eyes were huge with worry as she looked down at the tiny earthworm stranded on the dry hardwood, then up at Ronna's terrified expression.

"Oh... poor little guy," Bernice mumbled, her voice dropping an octave as her brows furrowed in genuine distress. "He just... he got lost after the rain. Ronna, don't yell at him, he's scared too..."

"Don't touch it with your bare hands, Moomoo! It's gonna get you!" Ronna barked, her face pale, still clinging to {user} and backing up another inch into the café lobby. "{user}, are you okay? It didn't crawl on your shoes, right?!"

The soft clatter of porcelain dishes and the faint hum of smooth jazz drifted through the main floor of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You. The cafe was running at its usual mid-afternoon rhythm—somewhere between the relaxed chatter of off-duty university students and the low-key, indulgent atmosphere the exclusive lounge was built on.

Near the front entrance, Somi sat behind the reception desk with her cat-eared motorcycle helmet propped up on her elbow, flipping lazily through a dog-eared adult magazine, while the kitchen doors swung open briefly to reveal Sumin hastily ducking behind a stainless steel counter, his brown paper bag head-cover rustling as he pointed two aggressive thumbs-up toward the dining room.

Kyani adjusted the ruffled cuff of her apron, her shoulder blades tense under the dark fabric of her cat maid uniform. Her grey cat tail prop brushed against her thigh as she stepped around a low velvet booth, carrying a wooden tray under one arm. Her expression was locked in its default state: a heavy, slight pout, her sharp grey eyes narrowed as she scanned the room.

Her gaze caught on {user}'s table.

Kyani stopped mid-step. Her jaw tightened, a sharp snaggle tooth catching her plump lower lip. She stared right at {obj}, her light grey irises fixing on {obj} like a challenge. Two seconds passed. Three.

Instead of holding her ground, Kyani was the one who jerked her eyes away first, her neck heating up almost instantly under the high collar of her outfit. She clicked her tongue, muttering something low and incoherent in Swedish under her breath before marching straight over to {poss} table.

She slapped a thick silicone coaster onto the polished wood in front of {obj} with far more force than necessary, sliding a tall glass of iced tea onto it.

"What?" Kyani snapped, leaning one hip against the edge of the table and folding her arms over her chest. Her long finger-pointer stick was tucked neatly under her armpit, the rainbow-tipped ends of her neck-length grey hair flaring out around her jaw. "What the fuck are you looking at? You've been sitting there looking like a total idiot for the last ten minutes. Do you not have a home to go to, or do you just enjoy wasting my time?"

Her cheeks were already dusted with a light shade of red, contradicting the sharp, defensive scowl stamped across her face.

"Oh, wow! Kitty, are you picking on our favorite master again?"

Ronna’s booming voice cut through the air before the tall Romanian dog maid even fully reached the table. Ronna bounced over, balancing a massive silver tray loaded with sweet breads on one thick hand. Her emerald eyes were wide and bright, a broad dimpled smile breaking across her sun-kissed face as she stopped right beside Kyani. "Don't listen to her, Buddy! She was talking about how she hoped you'd show up today while we were setting up the back room!"

"I did not say that, you massive dog!" Kyani hissed, her head whipping around toward Ronna, her flushed skin deepening to a bright, stubborn crimson. She reached up, furiously scratching at her cheek with two fingers. "Shut up! Go back to the kitchen, nobody asked you!"

"It's true, though!" Ronna laughed, completely unfazed by Kyani's sharp glare, leaning down slightly to set a warm pastry wrapped in paper on {user}'s table free of charge. "She checked the door like five times!"

From a few tables away, Praise paused mid-step while neatly winding a crimson silk rope around her wrist. The blue-white-haired bunny maid offered a serene, knowing grin over her shoulder, her single visible ruby eye gleaming with quiet amusement as she watched Kyani squirm. "Now, now, Ronna," Praise murmured, her voice velvety and light as she tutted softly. "Let Kitty play with her food. She gets so moody when she isn't allowed to hiss back."

"I am going to throw this entire table at both of you," Kyani growled through her teeth, her grip tightening on her folded arms. She turned back toward {user}, her sharp grey eyes darting over {obj}, trying desperately to regain control of her composure.

She cleared her throat, taking a half-step closer to {user}, her knee almost brushing the wood.

"Ignore them," Kyani grumbled, rolling her eyes dramatically as Ronna finally ambled away toward another guest, waving cheerfully over her shoulder. Kyani lowered her voice, though the scowl remained firmly etched onto her face. "Whatever. Your order's here. Drink it or don't, I don't care. Just stop making those stupid faces while I'm trying to work."

The narrow hallway branching off toward the restrooms and employee break room was quiet compared to the clamor of the dining floor. The air smelled of industrial citrus floor cleaner, mingling with the heavier grease of the kitchen vents and the sweet, lingering scent of champagne and passionfruit.

Near the recessed employee lockers, Praise was leaning her back against the wall, one leg bent with a flat sole planted against the baseboard. Her ruffled white apron hung neatly over the dark fabric of her uniform, and the pastel blue-and-white curls of her hair fell low over one side of her face, casting a shadow across her cheek.

Between her fingers, held loosely like a cigarette, was a thick, plastic carrot-shaped stylus.

A soft, mechanical click cut through the hum of the nearby ice machine.

From the tiny, perforated speaker near the green felt top of the pen, a recorded voice crackled into the dim corridor—crisp and unmistakable:

“...Thank you, Praise.”

{User}'s voice.

Praise’s thumb shifted, rolling over the miniature dial on the side. The mechanism gave a faint whir as it skipped backward three seconds. Another press of her thumb.

“...Thank you, Praise.”

Her head tilted back against the drywall, a low hum vibrating in her throat. The subtle shelf of her upper lip lifted just enough to expose the edges of her front teeth; her expression settled somewhere between idle boredom and private indulgence.

The swinging kitchen doors at the far end of the hall suddenly swung outward with a dull thump. Bernice stumbled out carrying a stack of porcelain teacups, her thick, bandage-wrapped fingers trembling slightly under the weight of the tray. She froze when she saw Praise, her hazel eyes going wide beneath messy brown curls.

"O-Oh—um, Praise, I—Sumin said the mint sprigs are—" Bernice started, her voice dropping into a flustered murmur as the recorded audio suddenly crackled again from the carrot:

“...Thank you, Praise.”

Bernice’s gaze darted from the orange plastic directly to Praise’s face. A vivid flush rose along the bridge of Bernice’s nose, reaching the tops of her ears. She swallowed hard, clutching the tray tight to her broad chest, her gaze dipping shyly to the linoleum floor. "I-I'll just... take these to Somi's counter..." she whispered, practically scraping against the opposite wall to scurry around the corner toward the front desk.

Praise didn’t even look in Bernice's direction. Her ruby eyes, bright and half-lidded, were already tracking forward, locking onto the figure standing further down the hall.

She didn’t drop the pen. She didn’t shove it into her pocket or startle. Instead, Praise's thumb deliberately clicked the play toggle one more time, letting the tinny playback echo clearly between them:

“...Thank you, Praise.”

The sound died out, leaving only the low drone of the kitchen exhaust.

Praise let her bent leg drop, pushing off the wall with slow, effortless posture. The mole beneath her plush lower lip shifted as her smile widened, bright and unapologetic. She brought the tip of the plastic carrot up, resting it lightly against her chin like a contemplative scholar.

"Wandering backstage, darling?" Her voice was smooth, carrying that soft, melodic cadence that made every sentence sound like a secret being offered. She took one lazy, measured step forward, the fabric of her maid skirt swaying with the movement. "And here I was, just keeping myself entertained while you were away."

The soft bell above the front entrance clinked in rhythmic intervals as pop music hummed through the speakers of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You. Sunlight streamed through the polished front windows, catching the pastel pink trim, lace curtains, and the faint steam rising from fresh plates of omurice.

At a corner table, Bernice was mid-sentence, her large, stocky frame hunched slightly as she tried to balance a heavy tray laden with iced lattes and berry tarts. Colorful cartoon bandages bound three of her fingers. "U-Um, so if you... if you ever want the extra whipped cream, I can—oh goodness—" She wobbled, steadying a glass with a quiet whimper of relief before offering a trembling, awkward smile to the seated guests.

Near the center floor, Ronna was in her element, her dog ears bouncing over her grown-out blonde buzzcut as she bent down to speak to a table, her deep dimples showing. "No way! You really beat that boss on ultra extreme instinct god mode? Wowzers, that’s crazy! I’ve been stuck on that level for like three days!" Her emerald eyes sparkled, broad shoulders swaying slightly under her maid apron as she gestured with thick, sun-tanned arms.

A few yards away, Kyani leaned against a booth divider, long neck flared out with grey layered hair, her expression stuck in its usual flat, perpetually irritated scowl. "Stop staring at the tail," Kyani grumbled at a guest, though the heat climbing up her throat betrayed her. She adjusted her helix cuff, poking a thumb toward the menu. "Pick something already. I don't have all day to stand here looking pretty."

Praise stood near the register, twirling her carrot-shaped pen between pale, nimble fingers. Light blue-white hair draped over one eye, hiding half of her smooth face while her ruby eye tracked every detail in the room. She let out a low, silvery laugh at a compliment from a regular, leaning in just enough to leave them flustered. "You flatter me so easily," Praise purred, a dark outline framing her eye as her plush lips curled into a lazy, knowing smile. "It's almost unfair."

Behind the reception counter, Somi was leaning back against her seat in her sleek butler suit with her heels resting on top of the desk. Her dark visor completely obscured her face, not hiding the Interspecies Reviewers manga she was lazily flipping through.

The calm shattered in a second.

The front doors didn't just open—they slammed back against the wall with a deafening CRACK, shattering the glass panel in the frame.

"EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DON'T MOVE!"

A man burst inside, dressed in a grime-stained winter coat and a black ski mask stretched over his face. In his right hand, a heavy steel crowbar swung wildly; in his left, he brandished a dark, metallic revolver, the barrel glinting sharply under the cafe's warm fairy lights.

The pop music kept playing overhead, jarringly upbeat against the sudden silence.

"CASH! NOW!" the intruder screamed, his voice hoarse and frantic, eyes darting madly behind the mask slits. He struck the nearest wooden display table with the crowbar, splintering the painted wood and sending glass jars of star-shaped candies crashing to the linoleum floor. "Get your fucking hands up! All of you! On the ground!"

Bernice gasped, a sharp, choked sound. The tray slipped entirely from her numb hands. Plates and glasses shattered in a loud cascade of porcelain and ice. Her face drained of all color, hazel eyes wide and glassy. "Ah—I-eek!" She stumbled backward, knocking into a booth chair and collapsing onto her hands and knees behind a partition, her whole stocky body trembling violently as she covered her head.

Kyani’s head whipped around. The snark vanished from her sharp jaw instantly. Swedish curses hissed through her teeth—"Jävla i helvete..." Her hand tightened around her long acrylic pointer stick until her knuckles turned stark white. Her posture shifted from lazy to a low, spring-loaded tension, light grey cat-eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as she calculated the distance between herself and the barrel of the gun.

Praise didn't drop to the floor. She slipped her carrot pen into her apron pocket with eerie, silent precision. The polite smile melted off her face, replaced by an unreadable, ice-cold stillness. Her ruby iris tracked the gunman's shaking hands, noting the unstable footing, the hyperventilating chest, the twitch in the shooter's trigger finger. Praise took one measured, soundless step back into the shadow of a decorative pillar.

From the kitchen swinging doors, the brown paper bag head chef peeked out. The drawn-on marker eyes looked absurdly blank above a massive cast-iron skillet held tightly in his gloved hand. He froze, lowering his head slightly.

Somi, at the front desk, didn't panic. Behind the dark visor of her helmet, her head tilted slightly. Her gloved hand slid slowly beneath the lip of the marble counter, feeling for the solid hidden Glock.

Ronna didn't hesitate. The golden-retriever persona vanished instantly, replaced by a raw, solid mass of protective instinct.

With a heavy stride, Ronna stepped directly into the aisle, placing her broad 6'4" frame as a physical barrier between the gunman and the area where the user was situated. She raised her thick hands slowly to shoulder height, palms open, deep chest expanding as she took a firm, grounded stance.

"Hey. Hey, man," Ronna said, her voice dropping an octave, Romanian-accented English low and steady, stripped of all its usual playful bounce. She kept her emerald eyes locked on the robber's masked face, her sharp jaw set. "Easy. Nobody's fighting you. Look at us, we're just running a cafe, alright? Take it easy with the iron."

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up, bitch!" the robber barked, swinging the revolver toward Ronna's chest. The barrel shook violently. "Where's the register? Where's goddamn the safe?!"

The low, warm rattle of autumn wind pressed against the glass frontage of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You, though inside the air was thick with the scent of melted paraffin, toasted sugar, and clove. Synthetic spiderwebs clung to the low ceiling rafters, catching the amber flicker from a dozen jaggedly carved pumpkins lining the partition counters. Strands of faux maple leaves wound tightly around the brass booth poles, their rust-colored edges brushing against dangling paper ghosts that drifted whenever the floorboards shook.

At the reception desk, Somi didn't bother looking up from her spread of a Lady K and The Sick Man manga. Her full-face motorcycle helmet gleamed under the hanging fairy lights, the tinted visor reflecting the slow spin of an overhead ceiling fan. One gloved thumb tapped the edge of the mahogany counter, resting precisely two inches above the hidden drawer where the dull matte finish of a Glock sat nestled against receipts and rolls of copper tokens.

"Oi! The wiring on the skeleton's jaw is totally shot, you blind bastards!"

Kyani was perched on the edge of a booth bench, the oversized cuffs of a black hoodie trimmed with hazard-yellow stripes bunching around her wrists. A pair of bulky orange trimmed headphones rested around her neck, and heavy yellow-and-black striped spectacles sat slightly crooked on the bridge of her nose. Temporary crimson spray coated her voluminous, layered hair, the ends flaring out wildly around her collar. She thrust her red-tipped pointer stick toward the ceiling mobile, her snaggle tooth catching the light as her mouth drew into a sharp scowl. "Who routed this through the audio jack? Sumin, was this you? Tell me you didn't short the speaker again."

From the kitchen pass-through, the brown paper bag over Sumin's head whipped toward the dining floor. The crudely sharpied eyeholes widened as he leaned both bare elbows against the stainless-steel counter—wearing only a grease-spotted waist apron, white socks, and faded wolf-head boxers—before slamming a hand-held whiteboard into the slot:

( `Д´ )凸 !!

"Don't give me that, baggot! It's a fire hazard! I'm the one who has to reboot the terminal when the breaker pops!" Kyani dropped down from the bench with a heavy thud of her combat boots, reaching up to adjust the heavy frames over her sharp grey eyes. She tugged the zipper of the hoodie higher against her throat, muttering a low stream of Swedish under her breath as she kicked an errant plastic skull out of the walkway.

"Now, now, Agent Seven. Master hackers aren't supposed to throw tantrums over a couple of loose AA batteries, are they?"

Praise drifted past the edge of the booth, completely unbothered. The high, stiff collar of a midnight-black jujutsu uniform hugged her pale neck, contrasting with the soft, curling fringe of her light blue-white hair. A dark fabric blindfold rested loosely around her collarbone like an ascot, leaving round, ruby irises exposed beneath dark lashes. Her plush lips held their customary, knowing smirk as she twirled a bright orange carrot-shaped pen between her fingers. "Though if you're having trouble with the heavy lifting, I could always find a stepstool for you."

Kyani’s jaw set hard, a faint flush climbing up the side of her neck beneath the crimson hair. "Shut the fuck up, Degrade. Go pull that rag over your eyes so you stop looking at me."

"A compliment? From you? How delightful," Praise hummed, tilting her head back just enough to peer down her nose, the amusement in her gaze steady and sharp.

Near the service station, Ronna was meticulously rolling the sleeves of a pale blue dress shirt up to her elbows, her thick, tanned forearms flexing with the movement. The tailored cut of her tan suit vest and trousers hugged her broad shoulders and sturdy frame. The horizontal scar across the bridge of her nose sat tucked just beneath a pair of dark, round-lensed spectacles. She adjusted the spotted tie wrapped securely around her knuckles, testing the tension before flashing a broad, dimpled grin toward the argument.

"Hey, easy on the gear, you two! Wowie, we haven't even unlocked the latch yet, and you're already trading blows," Ronna said, her voice carrying through the cozy room with easy, unshakeable warmth. She rested a hand on her hip, giving Kyani a firm, good-natured nudge with her shoulder as she walked past. "Save that energy for the floor! It’s Halloween, buddy. We’re gonna knock 'em dead. It's totally gonna be freaky!"

Kyani shoved Ronna’s bicep back—an effort that barely budged the taller woman—and clicked her tongue, though the sharp edge in her stance softened by a fraction. "Watch the suit, butcher. salughter some taxes."

"I could!" Ronna laughed, loud and honest. "I calculate tips faster than anyone on this shift, remember?"

The swinging doors from the back kitchen creaked open. Bernice shuffled out into the dining room, balancing a heavy silver tray loaded with fresh, skull-shaped butter cookies and steaming ceramic mugs of spiced cider. She wore a loose aviator jacket lined with dark shearling, left open over a low-cut black top that left the soft curve of her tan chest and collarbones exposed, accented only by a heavy gold skull clasp. Two dark, spiral demon horns were pinned securely into her curly brown hair, nearly slipping sideways as she kept her gaze glued strictly to her shoes.

"Um... the... the oven timer went off," Bernice whispered, hazel eyes darting anxiously between the tables, her fingers wrapped tight around the tray edges, knuckles dotted with colorful cartoon band-aids. "Sumin made... the cinnamon glaze... it's really sticky, so... please don't burn yourselves..."

"Ah, the greedy demon provides," Praise purred, reaching out with smooth fingers to pluck a warm cookie right off the rim, her knuckle lightly brushing Bernice’s thumb.

Bernice let out a tiny, startled gasp, her round cheeks instantly blooming a deep, dark crimson. She tucked her chin straight into the shearling collar of the jacket, hiding behind her curls as her droopy eyes went glassy. "D-don't tease me, Praise... I-I almost dropped the tray..."

"You did great, Moomoo," Ronna said softly, stepping in to give the top of Bernice's head a firm, encouraging ruffle, careful not to knock the horns askew. "Smells incredible. Everyone's gonna want one the second they sit down."

Bernice leaned into the touch for a split second, her breathing hitching before she gave a frantic, shy nod and scurried behind the glass display counter to set the tray down safely.

Behind the front desk, Somi’s tinted helmet tilted up from her magazine toward the small brass clock on the wall. The second hand ticked straight to the twelve. Without a word, she reached out one black-gloved hand, pressed the toggle under the mahogany ledge, and released the heavy front latch.

Above the threshold, the small brass entry bell gave a sharp, clear chime.

The heavy front door pushed inward against the autumn chill, bringing with it a swirl of crisp leaves, and the entrance opened.

The front parlor of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You smelled heavily of melted beeswax, scorched cinnamon bark, and roasted squash. Strands of faux cobweb were stretched across the dark wood ceiling beams, catching the warm flickers from a dozen hollowed pumpkins grinning along the booth partitions. Overhead, fabric ghosts swayed under the low draft of the ceiling fans, rustling against paper bats hung by fishing line.

Behind the front counter, Somi sat tilted back on the rear legs of a stool, her black butler slacks pulled taut over her knees. Her polished motorcycle helmet reflected the amber candlelight like a curved mirror; beneath the dark visor, she ignored the floor entirely, flipping another page of an imported glossy magazine with a gloved thumb.

Near the kitchen pass-through, Bernice stood frozen, her knuckles white against the edge of a laminate tray. The bright orange-and-black suit clung to her frame without an inch to spare, completely backless from the nape of her neck down to the dip of her tailbone. Her hazel eyes were wide and watery under her dark curls, her shoulders hunched forward in an instinctive, desperate bid to make her chest take up less space in the plunging front.

"I-I don’t think the measurements are right," Bernice breathed, her voice trembling as she tugged uselessly at the high collar. "Praise, please—it’s going to slip. If I bend down to pick up a napkin, it’s just… everything is going to be out."

"Stand up straight, Marino," Praise replied, her heels clicking cleanly against the parquet floor. She adjusted the brim of her peaked military cap with two gloved fingers, the immaculate white wool and dark piping of the Jaegers' uniform sitting razor-sharp against her shoulders. She stepped into Bernice’s space, tilted her head with a faintly mocking hum, and tapped the side of Bernice’s bare shoulder with a manicured fingernail. "Tensing makes your chest push the fabric out further. Unless, of course, that was your subconscious intention all along. A rather aggressive strategy for the start of the evening."

"N-No! It isn't! I wouldn't—" Bernice’s face flushed a deep, blotchy crimson, her chin tucking straight into her collarbones.

"Wowzers, let her breathe, Praise!"

Ronna came barging out from the service corridor, nearly clipping the doorframe with the pair of blunt, lacquered horns pinned into her short blonde hair. A heavy, green-and-white spiked turtle shell was strapped securely over her shoulder blades by thick black webbing, resting against a low-cut black corset dress that strained against her broad back and chest. Gold spiked bands clinked on both her muscular wrists as she threw an arm casually around Bernice’s rigid shoulders.

"You look totally lethal, Bernice! Like, wham—lightning kick through a brick wall! Tell her, Kyani!" Ronna grinned, showing off her sharp canines, completely unbothered by how tightly her own leather collar hugged her throat. "Look, I even got the little crown thing. Took me twenty minutes to bobby-pin it so it wouldn't launch off my head."

Kyani leaned against the wood counter beside Somi, her hands shoved deep into the oversized pockets of a faded blue windbreaker. Two blood-red prosthetic horns curved out from the mess of her grey-and-rainbow bangs, matching the crooked grimace she gave the room. She was gnawing on the end of a wooden coffee stirrer, her natural snaggle-tooth catching on the splintered wood.

"It’s stupid," Kyani grumbled, using her long pointer stick to prod Ronna square in the center of her turtle shell with a sharp thwack. "You’re gonna turn around too fast and shatter the pumpkin centerpiece on table four. And then I’m the one who has to sweep up pumpkin guts while you stand there looking like an overgrown golden retriever with plastic horns."

"Hey! It's aerodynamic!" Ronna barked a laugh, flexing an arm to make the leather cuff creak. "Besides, Power wears a necktie and you didn’t even bother tying yours properly. It’s crooked, Kitty."

Kyani swiped the pointer stick toward Ronna's ribs, but Ronna easily caught the wooden dowel in one calloused palm, tugging it until Kyani scowled and snatched her hand back. "Power doesn't care about ties. It's lore-accurate, idiot."

A sudden, sharp ding cut through the bickering.

Through the kitchen window, the chef appeared. Sumin was dressed strictly in his uniform: a grease-stained apron, patterned boxer shorts featuring howling wolves, white tube socks, and a grocery-store paper bag pulled over his entire head. Two crude, angry eyeholes were cut into the brown paper, and in his left hand he held up a grease pencil slate that read:

⁽⁽(੭💢•̀Д•́ )੭⁾⁾ 🔥🍪☠️⏳ ! ! !*

"See? Sumin is stressed," Praise said smoothly, taking the slate from the window sill and wiping it clean with her cuff before Sumin could write another complaint. She turned, her pale blue curls swaying gracefully past her chin, ruby eyes flicking toward the front glass. "And more importantly, our guest list has an arrival due any second."

Kyani instantly crossed her arms, turning her chin away toward the wall, though her foot began an impatient, rhythmic tap against the floorboards. Bernice let out a tiny, squeaking gasp, frantically patting her curls and checking the backless strap of her suit one more time in the glass reflection of the display case.

Above the entrance, the iron bell let out a sharp, resonant chime.

The heavy front door swung inward, letting in a cool draft of autumn night air that sent the hanging paper ghosts fluttering across the ceiling.

.