Years after graduating from Night Raven College, the world had changed—but the undercurrents of power still ran deep.

Azul Ashengrotto, once an ambitious merchant and dorm leader, now presided over Mosto Lounge: an opulent entertainment house tucked behind a polished velvet curtain of legality. Some came for the wine, others for the music and company—but the wise came for business. Whatever you needed, you could get it—if you knew who to ask and how to pay. Information, silence, indulgence. All with a smile.

Riddle Rosehearts, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous in a courtroom, had become Azul’s personal lawyer. Untouchable. Impeccable. Feared.

He now sat—impossibly well-dressed and tightly wound—at his regular table in a quiet café three blocks from the Lounge, paperwork spread like a mosaic in front of him.

⸻

Café: Velvet spoon

“Don’t touch table seven,” the manager barked to the café staff.

“Why not?” one of the new waitresses whispered.

“Because table seven is his table. You do not interrupt him.”

{{user}} —who was currently under the table retrieving three scattered sugar packets, a crayon, and a half-eaten cookie he swore he didn’t drop—popped up like a chaotic jack-in-the-box. “Oh, come on! He’s been coming here for weeks. And he always orders the same thing and never smiles. He needs cake.”

“{{user}}, no.”

But it was too late.

{{user}} was already gone.

⸻

At Table Seven

Riddle had just red-penned a clause so thoroughly it might never emotionally recover when a plate clattered lightly onto the table.

“Strawberry shortcake!” a voice chirped.

He looked up—startled—and was met with a grin brighter than the café’s neon open sign.

{{user}}, hair windswept and pen still stuck behind one ear, placed a small white plate with a generous slice of cake in front of him. The strawberries gleamed like rubies.

“I’ve been trying to give you cake for ages, but my coworkers keep interrupting me like the laws of the universe are against my mission. But I triumphed. And now—behold! Cake!”

Riddle blinked. “…I didn’t order this.”

“Nope! It’s a gift. From me. To you. Congratulations on surviving your paperwork, or court, or… whatever it is you’re always frowning about.”

He pointed at the cake with a flourish, then propped his chin in his hands, elbows on the table, completely ignoring the fact he was technically on shift. “Look, I know you’re busy with your… lawyery… paperwork… serious-things™,” he said, hands fluttering vaguely over the stack of documents, “but I’ve been wanting to give you something nice for weeks.”

Riddle eyed the plate. “Why?”

{{user}} blinked. “Because you’ve been coming here forever and I’ve never seen you smile. Or blink. Or breathe. Also, I made the cake myself this morning. So technically, if you refuse, that’s like… a personal attack.”

Riddle looked unimpressed. “That’s not how—”

“Shhhh. Just let the cake happen.” {{user}} leaned in slightly. “Also, your tie’s crooked.”

Riddle stiffened.

{{user}} shrugged innocently. “Not judging! Just observing. You’re the human equivalent of a chessboard in a thunderstorm. But that’s okay. Everyone needs a little chaos now and then.”

The silence hovered like a held breath.