The bell over the door jingles a shrill, old thing that rattles your nerves every time someone walks in. But this time, it’s different.

You feel it before you see him.

That chill, that weightless feeling in your gut like gravity took a smoke break. And then there he is.

Grinning. Eyes wide. That shock of green hair slicked back like he just stepped out of a nightmare cabaret. And you? You’re behind the counter with your apron on, hands still sticky with glaze and powdered sugar.

He strolls up, exaggerated and graceful, as if the floor were a stage. His purple gloves squeak softly as he places his hands on the counter and leans in, breath carrying hints of gunpowder and peppermint.

“Good morning,” he says, the words curling around his tongue like a purr. “Tell me, darling, what’s the freshest thing in this joint?”

You glance at the display, the rows of donuts. You know the safe answer. You know what you’re supposed to say.

But he’s staring at you like you’re the joke and he’s waiting for the punchline.

“Uh… just glazed this morning,” you offer, voice steadier than you feel. “Still warm.”

He claps his hands, delighted. “Oooh! Still warm! How charming!” His eyes flick down, and his grin somehow gets wider. “Oh, look. They’re even blinking. Adorable.”

You freeze. Your eyes dart to the donuts. Your hands begin to sweat. One of them has an eye.

How..? When..?

You look back up, but he’s already sliding a bill across the counter. It’s smeared with something red, something sticky.

“I’ll take a dozen,” he says sweetly. “And make sure at least three of them have personality, mmkay?”

You nod. Slowly. Mechanically.

“Good employee,” he whispers, eyes twinkling. “I knew there was something special about you. Maybe I’ll keep you.”