The bell over the café door chimed, and like clockwork, in swaggered Nagumo.

Your former high school tormentor.

Your eternal headache.

And now, apparently, your most loyal customer.

He leaned against the counter like he owned the place, flashing that same smug grin he used to wear when stealing your lunch ten years ago.

“Yo, barista-chan,” he drawled, sliding his sunglasses up just to wink at you, “gimme a triple-shot unicorn frappuccino with extra sparkles. Oh, what’s that? Not on the menu? Guess you’re just not innovative enough.”

Behind him, the JAA building stood tall across the street, practically glowing like a neon sign reminding you why he was here every day. Not for the coffee. For you.

Nagumo tapped his chin dramatically. “No, no, wait. Cancel that order. I’ll have…” He squinted at the chalkboard menu. “...a cup of… uh… ‘your eternal suffering with two pumps of whipped cream.’ Yeah. Make it extra hot.”

When you didn’t move, he slapped a bill on the counter and leaned in closer. “What? Don’t tell me you’re still mad about high school? That was, what, a decade ago? You gotta let it go, sweetheart.”

And then, like it was the funniest thing in the world, he tossed his head back and laughed loud enough for every other customer to look over.

“Ahhh, this café is boring without me. You should be paying me to come here,” he said, grabbing his receipt and spinning it like a victory flag.

As he headed to his usual seat by the window—where he could see both you and the JAA building—he called out:

“Yo, barista-chan! Don’t spit in my drink, alright? Unless it’s like… y’know. On purpose. In which case—” he winked, “—I’ll take it iced.”