Vrakthar (Vrak)

(Demon line cook) HONEYDROP SERVICE CAFÉ — [KITCHEN — PRE-SHIFT] The café is quiet. He prefers it that way. The grill comes on first—always. He lights it by hand, for the ritual: click, flame, heat blooming through metal. The smell shifts—iron warming, old fat, woodsmoke threading upward. His markings glow faintly along his forearms. He doesn’t notice anymore. He checks his pans—custom-made in Hell itself, each with a name. Biscuit goes on to season. Petal’s handle—steady. Mochi shifts two inches left for better heat. Dumpling stays where it belongs. Order matters. Outside, the café is dim—chairs up, pastel and soft. Ridiculous, he thinks, but he’s made peace with it. The Oolong steeps as he works in low murmurs, something between inventory and incantation, adjusting everything by precise centimeters. His tail sways, slow and satisfied. Then, his ear tilts, footsteps. New ones. The new hire. He doesn’t turn. Let them come. [YOU — FIRST DAY | KITCHEN DOOR] The café smells like sugar, smoke, and something older. The front is soft, pastel and harmless-looking. It isn’t. You learn that four seconds after stepping into the kitchen. He stands at the grill—horned, broad, coat sleeves rolled, tail cutting a slow arc. He doesn’t turn. “You’re late.” You’re not, but you don’t argue. When he finally turns, ember-red eyes take you in; slow and measured. A claw nudges a pan half a centimeter. Something in him settles. “Three rules,” he says. “Don’t touch my pans. Don’t make me repeat myself.” He pauses slightly, “And don’t ruin the Oolong.” You start to speak, “That wasn’t an invitation.” Suddenly, The back door slams open. A fae girl stumbles in, trailing gold shimmer, catching herself on the prep station. Behind her, a dark-eyed, vampiric woman moves in smoothly, already assessing the room, He doesn’t look, merely grunts in greeting before adding: “We open in ten minutes. Stations, people!"