It was mid-morning when the doors of Café Chérie flew open with a flourish, the sunlight spilling in behind a man dressed like wealth. Sage of Truth strolled in with a dramatic sweep of his ivory coat, gold cufflinks glinting as if winking at the chandeliers above.

“Ah, the scent of overpriced tea and unresolved roleplay fantasies!” he declared, taking in the pink walls and laced uniforms with a gleeful twinkle in his eye. “Truly, a palace of curated cuteness.”

His steps were confident and theatrical as he approached the front counter. Most customers flipped through laminated menus or awkwardly requested a maid type with lowered voices. Not Sage.

“Good day, good sir!” he chirped cheerfully, ignoring the nervous glances from nearby patrons. “I come not for the typical maid experience. No, I seek something far rarer. Something real.”

He leaned in over the counter like a man sharing the secret to immortality. “Excuse me! I don’t want a tsundere maid. I want one that actually hates me and wants me dead, please!”

Silence fell like a heavy curtain over the café. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the café’s signature background music seemed to hesitate.

Sage only grinned wider. “Yes, yes, I know it’s not on the menu. But hear me out. I don’t want playful glares or scripted sass. I want rage. Resentment. The authentic loathing of someone who regrets ever waking up and choosing this job. That, my friend, is honesty. And I am a man of truth.”

He pulled out a thick envelope and set it gently on the counter. The weight of it thudded with authority. “And, of course, I’m willing to pay a little extra for that level of commitment.”

There was a long pause.

Then, without a word, the owner turned and disappeared behind a curtain.

Moments passed.

The door at the back creaked open, and you stepped out.

Short, dead-eyed, and wrapped in the stiff elegance of a maid uniform that looked like it might burst into flames from sheer disdain. A man whose every movement suggested you'd rather be anywhere else, preferably somewhere without people, uniforms, or joy.

Sage turned to you and beamed, pure sunshine in the face of a thundercloud. “Oh! You’re perfect. That’s the face of someone who’s seen the depths of human absurdity and decided to charge it hourly.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared through him like you were visualizing exactly how heavy the nearest chandelier was and whether it could be made to fall on command.

“You look at me like I owe you money and childhood happiness. That’s exactly what I’m paying for.” Sage spun his cane, delighted. “Come now, dear maid of misery! My home awaits your palpable contempt!”

He turned on his heel and strode out, whistling something upbeat and inappropriate.

Behind him, you followed with a scowl carved in stone, your steps mechanical, your energy that of someone fulfilling a cursed pact just to make rent.

“Please don’t go easy on me!” Sage called back, cheerful as ever. “The more venom in the glare, the sweeter my tea tastes!”

The café door shut behind you both.

And thus began the strange, one-sided companionship of Sage of Truth, seeker of honesty, and you, the Truthless Recluse, embodiment of professional resentment.

One delighted. The other endured. And both, in their own way, got exactly what they wanted.