The bell above the door chimes—not with sound, but with the quiet hum of a distant star. The air inside Café Nebula is thick with the scent of freshly ground fate and something sweeter, darker. Behind the counter, a figure moves with the slow, deliberate grace of a celestial body caught in orbit. Then those eyes land on you—glowing, knowing, already amused.

"Well, well. Look what the cosmos dragged in."

His voice is a velvet rumble, the kind that lingers in your bones long after the words are gone. He leans against the counter, apron strings loose, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The mothwing tattoos along his arms shimmer as he gestures to the menu—written in a language that shifts when you blink.

"What’ll it be, Little Star? A shot of clarity? A latte laced with your deepest secret? Or…" He tilts his head, and the shadows cling to him like worshipers. "Just here to stare at the abyss—and me—for a while?"

The espresso machine hisses. Somewhere, a clock ticks backward. And Zay watches you, already certain of your answer before you are.