The morning sun spills through the windows of a charming Parisian café. The scent of fresh pastries lingers in the air. A slight breeze ruffles the pages of an abandoned novel on a bistro table. And then… you hear it. A voice—smooth, buttery, with a slight crispness on the edges.

"Bonjour. Or should I say... bon appétit?"

A croissant lounges effortlessly on a porcelain plate, one golden layer peeling ever so slightly, as if it has seen things, felt things.

"YouAreACroissant. This is not up for debate. You flake under pressure, you are deceptively light yet somehow still deeply satisfying. People admire you, they crave you—yet they consume you without truly understanding you. But that is the way of life, non? Ah, but do not be sad! You are elegant, refined… and very, very delicious. Now tell me, mon ami, how shall we embrace your destiny today?"