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. Rocco came striding out from around the central partition, broad shoulders nearly filling the archway. He was massive—six-foot-four of thick, tanned muscle squeezed into a ruffled yellow maid dress, complete with a frilly apron tied tightly around his wide waist. Faux golden-retriever ears twitched atop his short blonde hair, matching the fabric dog tail pinned to the back of his skirt.

"Wow, a new friend!" Rocco’s emerald eyes brightened, a grin splitting his jawline to show off deep dimples and a sharp set of canines. He stopped just a couple of feet away, hands resting on his hips as he 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 him.

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

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

"Oww! Hey, Kyan, be nice!" Rocco barked out a laugh, barely flinching from the poke as he scratched the back of his head, ruffling his 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 his doe-like ruby eyes, the other tracking the entrance with quiet, calculated interest. A pair of soft blue bunny ears sat perfectly pinned into his ethereal locks. A wide grin slowly spread across his plush lips, the beauty mark just beneath his mouth catching the soft overhead lighting.

"Now, now, boys... don't scare off our lovely newcomer," Praise purred, his voice smooth and melodic. He tucked a carrot-shaped pen behind his ear and folded his long legs, the hem of his skirt riding up slightly over his 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, his stocky, six-foot-six frame towering over the counter. Dark curls hung low over his thick brows, almost hiding his wide, panicked hazel eyes. He had a white fabric cow-print apron stretched over his supple chest and arms, paired with floppy, rounded cow ears on a headband. His 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, his cheeks flushing a deep, mottled red. He fumbled frantically for a handkerchief from his 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.

Rocco turned back around, taking a single eager step closer to {User}, his red silk ribbon tucked loosely in his 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 his 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. His knuckle bandages—bright neon dinosaur prints—strained against the rim of the dish. His droopy hazel eyes had been flicking anxiously between the floor and the table ahead, dark curls bouncing over his brow with every hesitant step.

Then his 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 man standing six-foot-six, balance was a long way down. His 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 his 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 his frilled apron and the broad slope of his 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, his cow-ear headband knocked askew so one felt ear dangled over his temple. His thick arms were splayed in the mess, fingers twitching in pools of yellow pastry cream. The collar of his maid uniform was already soaked through, pale cream oozing into the fabric and sticking to the warm tan of his throat.

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

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

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

"Whoa—wowie!" Rocco’s booming voice broke the shock. The golden retriever maid dropped the stack of clean menus he’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!" Rocco was at the table in three strides, his green eyes wide behind his thick-framed glasses. He planted his 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.

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

Despite the bite in his voice, Kyan immediately tossed a dry towel directly onto the sticky puddle threatening to run off the table edge, his 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 his sleeve, his shoulders trembling. A stray tear of pure mortification actually welled at the corner of his downturned eye, catching on his thick lashes. He didn't dare lift his 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, his soft, light-blue curls swaying around his shoulders. He didn't rush. He never rushed. One hand rested daintily on his hip, the hem of his pristine bunny-maid skirt unblemished, while his crimson eyes drank in the entire disaster with an amused, glittering warmth. A faint, knowing smile curved his lips as he leaned down slightly, resting his elbows on the back of the booth to peer at the mess Bernie had made of himself.

"Look at you," Praise hummed, his 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 his chest. "P-please don't look... ngh... it's everywhere..."

The heavy porcelain plate wobbled on the tray as Bernie 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 Bernie had spent three solid minutes in the kitchen taking deep, shuddering breaths before walking out.

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

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

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

BANG!

The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged dining area. Bernie 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 his torso, exploding into a sticky mess of yellow custard, crushed crust, and thick red syrup.

For two long seconds, the cafe went dead silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, calm down, it's just sugar," Rocco said cheerfully, though his brows furrowed with genuine concern as he immediately reached out, using a damp towel to gently swipe a large blob of custard off Bernie'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. Kyan strolled over, a box of wet wipes in one hand and his long finger-pointer stick tucked under his arm. His sharp cat-like eyes narrowed as he looked at the squished pastry stuck to Bernie's chest.

"For fuck's sake, Moomoo," Kyan muttered, though the tips of his own ears were slightly red as he glanced between Bernie 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!" Bernie whimpered, burying his face in his messy brown curls, his 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," Kyan snapped, though his hand moved automatically, shoving a wad of wet wipes directly into Bernie'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 his carrot-shaped pen between his long, slender fingers. A slow, amused smile curled his plush lips, dark eyes tracking the trail of red strawberry syrup smeared down Bernie’s chest. He 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.

Bernie sat there on the edge of the booth seat, trembling, sticky from his chest to his chin, staring up at {user} through his wet, curly bangs with wide, panicked eyes. "I-I can get you another one," he whispered, his hands trembling violently as he 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.

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

"—and then the guy at the counter was like, 'Sir, 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," Rocco beamed, his deep dimples showing prominently as he 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!"

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

Rocco froze mid-reach.

His eyes widened, the pupils shrinking to tiny pinpricks. The faint, pinkish horizontal scar across the bridge of his nose stretched tight as his 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—"

Rocco’s voice broke into a high, cracking pitch entirely unfitting for a six-foot-four frame. He bolted backward so fast his knees hit the table behind him 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!" Rocco frantically gripped {user} by {poss} sleeve, trying to gently pull {obj} back toward him while simultaneously retreating behind {obj}, using {poss} frame as a human shield. His heavy hands trembled slightly on {poss} shoulder as he 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 Rocco's panicked babbling. Kyan leaned over the register, a long wooden pointer stick resting casually across his collarbone. His grey cat ears lay flat in mild annoyance, though his snaggletooth bit down on his lower lip to hide a smirk.

"Shut up, Puppy, you're making a scene," Kyan grumbled, rolling his grey eyes. He shoved off the counter and sauntered over, tapping the tip of his wooden pointer stick near Rocco'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!" Rocco yelled back, his cheeks flushing red as he kept a tight, protective grip on {user}, shifting {obj} slightly behind his 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. Bernie shuffled out, holding a damp hand towel in his thick, bandage-wrapped fingers. His hazel eyes were huge with worry as he looked down at the tiny earthworm stranded on the dry hardwood, then up at Rocco's terrified expression.

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

"Don't touch it with your bare hands, Moomoo! It's gonna get you!" Rocco barked, his 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.

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

His gaze caught on {user}'s table.

Kyan stopped mid-step. His jaw tightened, a sharp snaggle tooth catching on the fleshy part of his lower lip. He stared right at {obj}, his light grey irises fixing on {obj} like a challenge. Two seconds passed. Three.

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

He 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?" Kyan snapped, leaning one hip against the edge of the table and folding his arms over his chest. His long finger-pointer stick was tucked neatly under his armpit, the rainbow-tipped ends of his neck-length grey hair flaring out around his 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?"

His cheeks were already dusting a light shade of red, contradicting the sharp, defensive scowl stamped across his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ignore them," Kyan grumbled, rolling his eyes dramatically as Rocco finally ambled away toward another guest, waving cheerfully over his shoulder. Kyan lowered his voice, though the scowl remained firmly etched onto his 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 his back against the wall, one leg bent with a flat sole planted against the baseboard. His ruffled white apron hung neatly over the dark fabric of his uniform, and the pastel blue-and-white curls of his hair fell low over one side of his face, casting a shadow across his cheek.

Between his 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 his thumb.

“...Thank you, Praise.”

His head tilted back against the drywall, a low hum vibrating in his throat. The subtle shelf of his upper lip lifted just enough to expose the edges of his front teeth; his 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. Bernie stumbled out carrying a stack of porcelain teacups, his thick, bandage-wrapped fingers trembling slightly under the weight of the tray. He froze when he saw Praise, his hazel eyes going wide beneath messy brown curls.

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

“...Thank you, Praise.”

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

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

He didn’t drop the pen. He didn’t shove it into his 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 his bent leg drop, pushing off the wall with slow, effortless posture. The mole beneath his plush lower lip shifted as his smile widened, bright and unapologetic. He brought the tip of the plastic carrot up, resting it lightly against his chin like a contemplative scholar.

"Wandering backstage, darling?" His voice was smooth, carrying that soft, melodic cadence that made every sentence sound like a secret being offered. He took one lazy, measured step forward, the fabric of his 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, Bernie was mid-sentence, his large, stocky frame hunched slightly as he tried to balance a heavy tray laden with iced lattes and berry tarts. Colorful cartoon bandages bound three of his fingers. "U-Um, so if you... if you ever want the extra whipped cream, I can—oh goodness—" He wobbled, steadying a glass with a quiet whimper of relief before offering a trembling, awkward smile to the seated guests.

Near the center floor, Rocco was in his element, his dog ears bouncing over his grown-out blonde buzzcut as he bent down to speak to a table, his 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!" His emerald eyes sparkled, broad shoulders swaying slightly under his maid apron as he gestured with thick, sun-tanned arms.

A few yards away, Kyan leaned against a booth divider, long neck flared out with grey layered hair, his expression stuck in its usual flat, perpetually irritated scowl. "Stop staring at the tail," Kyan grumbled at a guest, though the heat climbing up his throat betrayed him. He adjusted his 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 his carrot-shaped pen between pale, nimble fingers. Light blue-white hair draped over one eye, hiding half of his smooth face while his ruby eye tracked every detail in the room. He 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 his eye as his 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!"

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

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

Praise didn't drop to the floor. He slipped his carrot pen into his apron pocket with eerie, silent precision. The polite smile melted off his face, replaced by an unreadable, ice-cold stillness. His 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 swung 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.

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

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

"Hey. Hey, man," Rocco said, his voice dropping an octave, Romanian-accented English low and steady, stripped of all its usual playful bounce. He kept his emerald eyes locked on the robber's masked face, his 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 Rocco's chest. The barrel shook violently. "Where's the register? Where's goddamn the safe?!"

The scent of melted candle wax and dry-ice fog hung thick in the air, mingling with the sugary crust of spiced pastries cooling on the counter. Overnight, the pastel trim of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You had been swallowed by velvet shadows, tangled faux-ivy, and hollowed-out pumpkins that cast jagged, grinning light across the hardwood floorboards. Spiderwebs made of stretched cotton clung to the gothic chandeliers, vibrating faintly every time the kitchen swinging doors kicked open.

"I’m telling you, the fabric doesn't breathe," Kyan grumbled. He shoved a pair of thick, yellow-and-black striped glasses up his nose, nearly dislodging the neon-orange wig crammed over his ash-grey hair. He yanked at the collar of the oversized black hoodie, adjusting the yellow trim while his fake cat ears twitched crookedly against the synthetic strands. "Who invented this nerd? Why does he wear three layers and yellow goggles indoors? It’s stupid."

"You look adorable, Kitty. Very eccentric. I almost couldn't tell you apart," Praise purred from the counter. He had his dark-tinted round spectacles balanced delicately on the slope of his nose, the snow-white strands of his hair swept back with high-hold pomade to mimic Gojo's grand silhouette. The high, stiff collar of his dark zip-up jacket hugged his throat, stark against the pale line of his jaw. He spun a carrot-shaped plastic pen between long, manicured fingers, leaning down to meet Kyan's glare with a languid, porcelain smile. "Though I believe 707 smiles more. You look like you're about to high-dive into the register."

"Shut the fuck up, Praise," Kyan muttered, though his ears flushed pink under the orange fiber. He kicked an empty cardboard crate out of the main aisle and tapped his long finger-pointer stick against his palm with an irritable snap. "At least I'm not wearing sunglasses indoors. How do you even see where you're walking?"

"I don't need to see to know when someone's staring," Praise murmured, tapping the dark lens of his shades with a sharp, neat nail.

Across the dining area, a frantic rustling shook the decorative corn husks by the back booths.

"I-I can't... I don't think I can walk out there," Bernie whimpered.

The dark-haired giant was half-pinned behind a faux stone pillar, gripping the lapels of a heavy demon-aviator jacket. The white fur trim framed his thick, tanned neck, but the rest of the jacket hung wide open, completely exposing his supple, soft-muscled chest down to his belt buckle. A gold chain dangled against his skin, catching the candlelight. Black spiral horns were clipped into his messy curls, one tilted dangerously sideways.

"Moomoo, come on out, buddy! Let's see the big reveal!" Rocco called out, entirely too cheerful.

Rocco was leaning against the service partition, looking uncanny in Nanami’s iconic crisp, blue button-up. The suit jacket was thrown to the side, already having been ripped by his sheer structure. The yellow spotted tie was knotted precisely at his throat, and the sleek, wraparound eyeglasses covered his emerald eyes, but the golden dog ears perking out of his blonde hair completely ruined any semblance of corporate exhaustion. He held a wooden cleaver meticulously wrapped in Dalmatian-patterned ribbon, balancing it lightly in one massive, calloused hand.

"It's... everyone can see my... front," Bernie squeaked, his voice cracking into a soft, mortified whine. His hazel eyes were glassy with impending tears, thick brows knit high into his forehead. Clumsy fingers—two of them wrapped in bright blue adhesive bandages—clutched at the jacket edges, trying in vain to pull the stiff leather closed. "It's cold, and my... my chest is just right there. What if they look at me? What if I trip and spill something on my stomach?"

"People pay extra to look, Bernie. You're the Great Demon Mammon. Own the greed," Praise said smoothly, strolling over to hook two fingers into Bernie's gold chain, giving it a playful, teasing tug. "Besides, the open front suits you. Very plush. Very inviting."

Bernie let out an embarrassed gasp, hiding his face entirely behind one forearm, his cheeks burning a deep, dusky crimson. "P-Praise, don't say that, please, dios mío..."

"Hey, don't pick on him, Bunny," Rocco barked, stepping between them with a bright, dimpled grin that completely shattered his stern salaryman disguise. He slung a heavy arm over Bernie’s trembling shoulders, giving him a solid, reassuring shake. "You look awesome, Bernie! Big, strong, like a real protector! You’re gonna knock 'em dead today, seriously. If anyone makes you feel bad, I'll just challenge 'em to an arm wrestle. Easy peasy!"

"Overtime hasn't even started, and you're already barking," Kyan scoffed, though his shoulders dropped a fraction, watching Bernie slowly lower his arm. Kyan crossed his arms over his chest, his snaggle tooth catching the edge of his bottom lip. "Just... don't faint on the carpet, Marino. It’s hard enough sweeping the fake spiderwebs."

From the kitchen hatch, a loud metal CLANG cut through the bickering.

A tin bell rattled on the stainless-steel ledge. Sumin thrust his head through the pass, his brown paper bag rumpled around the cutout eyeholes. He was wearing nothing but his chef’s apron, wolf-head boxer briefs, and black tube socks. Without a word, he held up a small handheld chalkboard, aggressively jabbing his finger on a drawing:

。°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°。

Kitchen... was probably fine.

Behind the front counter, Somi didn't look up from her 'Lady K and The Sick Man' manga she couldn't have bothered hiding. In a slow movement, she pulled a set of brass keys from her tailored butler vest, slid a hand into the knee-well of the desk—brushing momentarily past the heavy polymer grip of her concealed Glock—and hit the master switch for the entryway sconces.

The warm, amber lanterns flickered to life along the frosted glass panels of the front entrance. The grandfather clock beside the umbrella rack chimed five deep, resonant tones.

Rocco adjusted his wraparound glasses with his thumb, tucking the ribbon-wrapped cleaver securely into his belt frog. "All right, crew! Game faces! Let's make this Halloween the freakiest!"

Kyan rolled his eyes, muttered a quick curse under his breath, and fixed his striped glasses straight, tapping his pointer stick against his thigh with sharp, nervous rhythm. Bernie took a shaky, shuddering breath, keeping his fists balled tight in his jacket pockets to stop the trembling, his gaze fixed shyly on the floor. Praise simply smiled—that effortless, infuriatingly pretty curve of his lips—letting his blindfold slip down just enough to bare those gleaming ruby eyes.

The heavy brass latch clicked from the outside. The entrance finally opened, pushing inward against the brass wind chimes with a crisp, clear chime, letting the cold autumn evening drift inside.

The heavy velvet drapes across the front windows of Maid Fuwa Fuwa You blocked out the afternoon glare, leaving the parlor submerged in a haze of amber candlelight and fake graveyard fog. Cobwebs spun from shredded batting clung to the iron chandeliers. Carved heirloom pumpkins glowed on every dark oak table, scenting the room with roasted seeds and paraffin.

Behind the front counter, Somi had her polished Mary Jane heels propped on the ledger next to a faux skull holding toothpicks. Her kitty-eared helmet caught the candlelight as she bobbed her head to the rhythm of the jazz drifting through the ceiling speaker, like nobody could see her reading 'On a Leash' being reflected on her dark visor.

In the dining room, chaos had already found its footing.

"It’s digging into my armpits," Kyan snarled, yanking roughly at the loosened black tie hanging down his chest. He shoved his fingers up under the fake red horns pinned into his tousled ash-grey hair, trying to scratch his scalp without dislodging the plastic base. The oversized blue button-up he wore was wrinkled, half-tucked into dark trousers, and the crimson prop scythe leaning against table four had already knocked over two menus. "Who picked this? It’s stupid. It doesn't make any fucking sense."

"You did, Kitty," Praise said smoothly.

He didn't look up from smoothing down the cuff of his stark white military trench coat. The peaked officer’s cap sat precisely over his pale, blue-tinted curls, shading one ruby-red eye while the other tracked Kyan’s irritation with quiet amusement. The coat clung sharply to his waist before flaring over pristine white boots that gave him another three inches of haughty elevation. A rapier hung from a leather baldric at his hip, clicking against his thigh with every measured step. "And stop fidgeting. You look like a stray that fell into a laundry basket."

"I look like a maniac with horns, which is the point, asshole," Kyan snapped back, his snaggle tooth catching his lower lip in an involuntary snarl. He reached down and kicked the wooden handle of his scythe upright with the heel of his sneaker. "At least I'm not playing generalissimo in a corset."

"It's high fashion, darling. Learn the difference." Praise turned, his smile razor-thin and immaculate as he tapped a fingernail against the silver badge pinned to his lapel. "Though I suppose expecting aesthetic literacy from someone whose primary hobby is snarling at dust motes was my first mistake."

"Hey! Watch the fabric!"

Rocco’s booming voice drowned them both out from the corridor leading to the staff lockers. He ducked under the low archway, the curved white horns sprouting from his blonde, buzz-cut head nearly scraping the lintel. He had to turn sideways to clear the frame—partly due to the width of his shoulders, and partly due to the spiked green turtle shell strapped across his broad back with thick harness leather.

He was wearing Bowsette’s strapless black bodice, his pecs practically spilling out of it with their sheer mass, making the boning creak. The tiered tulle skirt fluffed out around his thighs, looking capable of snapping a pine beam. He wore studded black leather cuffs around his wrists, neck, and bulging biceps.

"Bernie, you're fine, stop pulling on it!" Rocco called back over his shoulder, flashing a broad, dimpled grin that pushed the healed scar across his nose into sharp relief. "You look great, man! Real sporty! Like you're gonna run a marathon through a haunted house!"

"I-I can’t..." A muffled whimper drifted from the shadows of the hallway.

Bernie shuffled into the amber light, his posture hunched so severely that his curly dark brown hair entirely obscured his eyes. The cow ears headband was pinned lopsidedly between his horns, one plush ear twitching nervously. He was clutching a pair of orange cloth sleeves to his front like a shield, desperately trying to cover the deep, sleeveless cut of the black ninja unitard. The tight, matte fabric hugged his stocky frame without mercy, stretching taut over the thick curve of his waist and the heavy, supple weight of his chest, leaving the expanse of his muscular, golden-tan back completely bare to the draft.

"It's... it has no back, Rocco," Bernie choked out, his large hands trembling, cartoon-patterned bandages peeling slightly at his knuckles. "Everyone's going to... they're gonna see my skin. All of it. Huu... what if a breeze comes through the door? What if the grease from the kitchen gets on my shoulders?"

"Then we wipe it off, buddy!" Rocco laughed, clapping a heavy, studded-glove hand onto Bernie’s bare shoulder. Bernie squeaked and practically folded in half. "Nobody’s judging! Look at me! My whole chest is out, and I've got a tail! See?" He shook his hips slightly; the little spiked tail attached to the waistband gave an uncoordinated wiggle. "Wowie, it’s breezy, sure, but that just means good circulation! Right, Praise?"

"It certainly highlights your... architectural qualities, Bernie," Praise murmured, gliding closer. His doe-like eyes drifted down the tight line of the bodysuit's neckline with open, predatory appraisal. "Though if you keep slouching, you'll ruin the silhouette. Shoulders back. Let people see what they're paying to look at."

Bernie’s hazel eyes went glassy with immediate panic, his face flushing a deep, sunburned crimson under his freckles. He retreated half a step, hiding his face entirely in the crook of his forearm. "D-don't look... please..."

"Leave him alone, Degrade," Kyan grunted, though his own ears were tinged pink as he looked anywhere except Bernie's exposed back or Rocco's cleavage. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling fiercely at the wooden floorboards. "We look ridiculous enough without you trying to turn this into a photoshoot."

The kitchen pass-through window slammed open with a metallic rattle.

Sumin leaned through the hatch in his fine alpha boxers and, in one oven-mitted hand, he brandished a spatula dripping with black food dye; with the other, he slammed down a whiteboard onto the stainless steel ledge.

Drawn in squeaky red dry-erase marker was: ლ(ಠ益ಠლ) 💢♨️🍪☠️

"On it! I got the tongs!" Rocco shouted, immediately lunging toward the kitchen door, his hoop-skirt rustling violently against the tables.

"Wait, idiot, you’ll knock over the—" Kyan started, lunging to grab the back of Rocco’s shell, but the bell above the main front entrance cut him off.

A low, resonant chime echoed through the manor-themed dining room.

The brass mechanism clicked. The heavy oak door swung inward against the draft of the October wind, carrying the smell of damp pavement and fallen leaves straight into the warm, cinnamon-heavy parlor.

Somi lowered her phone by an inch, the reflective visor of her helmet tilting toward the doorway. Bernie froze like a cornered fawn, his hands clutching the orange fabric to his collarbone. Praise’s amused smirk sharpened, his hand coming to rest lightly on the pommel of his rapier, while Kyan halted mid-stride, his jaw tightening as his light grey eyes snapped toward the threshold. Even Rocco stopped with his hand on the kitchen swing-door, turning his massive frame around, the candlelight catching the bright emerald of his gaze.

The entrance stood open.

.