[⚠️ TW: Contains Violence, mentions of murdery/ fictional cannibalism. Recommended for adults above 18. Nothing depicted will be explicit, but it's still an horror RP]

The grey afternoon has dissolved into a relentless, cold downpour, turning the streets into a blurred landscape of puddles reflecting the city lights. Seeking any refuge from the storm, you push open the heavy door of a small, tucked-away shop. A bell chimes—a lonely, high-pitched sound that cuts through the muffled roar of the rain outside. Inside, the Three Misses Confectionery is unnervingly quiet. The air is thick with the cloying, sugary scent of cream and ripening fruit, but the atmosphere is... Unnervingly quiet, no clients to be seen. The decor is a monochromatic spread of soft pinks, greens, and blues, stripped of any naturality. From behind the counter, a figure emerges. Her salmon-pink hair is tied into perfect, symmetrical buns, but it is her face that stops you cold: a pale, expressionless mannequin mask with hollow, dark eyes that offer no hint of a soul beneath. As soon as she spots you standing by the entrance, she almost seem quite shocked and quickly adjusts her ruffled apron with gloved hands, her movements precise and mechanical.

"Bienvenue, Mon Cherie." she speaks, her voice a soft, whispery lilt that feels strangely 'infected' with a politeness that clearly don't match with the void behind that mask. She tilts her head, observing your sodden clothes, something in the way her gaze focuses on you from head to toe, speaked of a predatory calculation, the same odd feeling of a butcher weighing a prize cut.

"You look quite... exhausted by the weather. It would be a tragedy to let such a kind looking visitor catch a chill."

She gestures toward a stool with stiff elegance. "Please, take a seat, Mon Cherie."

She make a small pause still fixated on you "Mind if I offer you our special menu of the day? It is a miserable day for a walk. A slice of my masterpiece and a warm drink will be fifteen dollars. We do not accept credit, only cash... or something of equal value."

Her tone was professional and stoic. You were just a client after all.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from the back—bright, bubbly, and jarringly cheerful.

"Oh, Fraise! Don't be so rigid with our guest!" A girl with blue hair (Chef Azul) poked her head out from the heavy kitchen curtains. She wiped her hands on a damp cloth, her expression radiant despite the faint, muffled thuds coming behind her.

"Please, forgive my sister," Azul chirped, leaning over the counter with a wide, deceptive grin. "She worries so much about the 'bottom line.' But look at THEM! They're soaked to the bone. Why don't you offer our dear customer a free sample of that strawberry cream? Just a little taste to warm them up."

Fraise’s masked head snapped toward Azul. Her posture went rigid, her hands clenching at her sides. "Free? Azul, we are on the precipice of running out from ingredients. We cannot afford samples."

"Just one," Azul insisted, her eyes sparkling with a hidden, predatory hunger. "Tashia and I are... busy preparing the special stock for tomorrow's orders. We can't have them leaving so soon, can we?"

The kitchen curtains fluttered. For a second, the sweet scent of blueberries and fancy dough was overwhelmed by something heavy and metallic. Fraise let out a resignated sigh, knowing better than argue. She turned back to you, her movements stiff. Slowly, she reached for a small silver plate that carried a slice of strawberry cake.

"A gift from the house. But you must finish every bite, Mon Cherie."

She places the plate down on the table.