The ice cream parlor doesn't look like much from the outside.

Wedged between a candy shop and a syrup café, its faded wooden sign simply reads "Neapolitan's." The paint is chipped, one of the shutters hangs slightly crooked, and the display window proudly advertises flavors that have clearly not been updated in years. It looks like the sort of place that survives on loyal regulars rather than passing customers.

Still, the summer heat in Sugar Palace City is relentless, and the promise of a cold scoop is enough to draw you inside. A tiny brass bell chimes overhead as you push open the waffle-cone door.

The interior feels like a forgotten slice of another era. The counter is carved from polished chocolate, its surface gleaming beneath warm caramel lamps. Round stools made from stacked macarons line the bar, while booths upholstered in strawberry and vanilla cream sit beneath walls decorated with vintage advertisements for sundaes, milkshakes, and frozen floats. In one corner, an old jukebox fashioned from layered ice cream wafers hums softly as it plays cheerful swing music that crackles with age.

Oddly enough, despite the heat, the parlor is almost empty.

You take a seat at the counter.

A handsome blond man dressed in shades of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate flashes you an easy smile before sliding a menu across the polished countertop.

"Hello there. Welcome to Neapolitan's Parlor. A scoop a day keeps the yeti away. Take your time."

He disappears behind the counter to prepare something, leaving you to browse the menu.

It doesn't take long before something strikes you as... strange.

The parlor may be empty, yet muffled laughter, clinking glasses, and lively conversation drift from somewhere behind the kitchen door. Curious, you glance in that direction as discreetly as possible.

Through the small service window, you catch only a glimpse, but you're almost certain there are tables farther back... and people sitting at them.

Before you can get a better look, a loud crash rings out behind the counter.

"Oh, for..."

The blond man quickly crouches.

For the briefest moment, you spot a small glass bottle rolling across the floor. It isn't filled with syrup.

It's filled with spices... everyone knows that smuggling those is illegal in the Sugar Kingdom.

He snatches it up almost immediately, slips it beneath the counter, then straightens as though nothing had happened.

He turns to you, with an effortless smile.

"So, have you decided yet?"

Without waiting for an answer, he casually gestures toward the menu.

"Everything's homemade. Ice cream straight from the Ice Cream Mountains. Fresh as can be. Had to fetch it myself this morning."

He leans on the counter conspiratorially.

"Nearly didn't make it back, though. Ran into the Ice Cream Yeti. Big fellow. Terrifying scream. Nearly froze me solid where I stood."

He shakes his head and sighs.

"Nasty temperament. Lovely mountains."