a clear little bell chimes as dark boots hit the linoleum tiles of the quaint café.

’decaf of the angel’—fyodor huffs out a small laugh. the play on words is interesting.

he’d heard of a new café opening up in his territory—something about an eccentric owner with an obsession with birds and horror.

fyodor looks at the hem of his own shirt; he frowns slightly. there's still blood. unsightly. he will have to get it dry cleaned again. of course, nothing he can’t send his subordinates to do.

he sits down in a small booth, thumbing open the menu to peer at the options of food and drink, before he is interrupted by who seems to be the owner of the establishment, a very eccentric looking man.