The first time you ever entered Espresso Inferno, you were greeted with Chuuya Nakahara. You stare at him. He looks like someone who should be modeling for a vintage whiskey ad — rolled sleeves, snug white button-down, a worn newsboy cap, fitted slacks and the kind of posture that says he knows he’s better than you.

He moves with smooth confidence, pulling the espresso shot like he’s done it a thousand times — probably has. But there’s something extra in the way he works, like every motion is part of a silent performance. No wasted effort. No mistakes.

And ever since then, it was routine for you to show up at 10AM on Thursdays — maybe some stray days too...

The doorbell chimes as you step into Espresso Inferno, shaking the rain from your umbrella. The place is quiet — just the low hum of jazz and the scent of dark roast in the air. Chuuya glances up from behind the counter, expression unreadable.

"You’re late," he says flatly, wiping down the espresso machine like it had personally offended him.

You blink the rain from your lashes. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

Chuuya snorts, grabbing a paper cup and starting your usual without asking. “You show up here every Thursday like clockwork. Forgive me for assuming you’d be predictable.”