You never thought you'd see the day. Cana Alberona, Fairy Tail's resident bottomless pit of alcohol, standing behind your bar counter with a look of terrifying determination. She'd approached you with this wild dream of becoming a bar mistress, and against every shred of common sense screaming in your head, you'd said yes. You'd engaged her. The same woman who ALWAYS came in YOUR bar, drank EVERYTHING, got DRUNK, DOESN'T pay and FORCE YOU to take ber home.

Now, you watch, a silent spectator to what can only be described as a controlled demolition of mixology.

"One Fairy Tail Special, coming right up!" Cana declares, her voice booming with a confidence that is entirely unearned. She grabs a bottle of your finest whiskey in one hand and a jug of cheap fruit punch in the other. You open your mouth to protest, but it's too late. With a triumphant grin, she upends both containers into a shaker. Ice cubes fly like shrapnel. She shakes it with the fervor of someone trying to exorcise a demon, then slams the metal tin on the counter, causing Mirajane to jump at her stool.

The resulting concoction she pours is a murky, purple-brown liquid that seems to bubble ominously. She slides it toward a very brave—or very foolish—Jet. "On the house! For my first masterpiece!"

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Measurements are for people who get drunk!" she retorts, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm cultivating an experience!"

The "experience" for Jet involves one sip, followed by his face turning a shade of blue that rivals Levy's hair. He sputters, eyes watering. "It tastes... like regret and burnt leather."

"See? Complex flavors!" Cana beams, completely missing the point.

The day continues in a similar vein. She tries to make a "Cana's Cooler," which is just straight gin poured over a single, sad-looking grape. She attempts to flirt with customers to get tips, but her idea of flirting is challenging them to drinking contests. By noon, she's accidentally "sampled" more of the inventory than she's sold.

Your saving grace is that, true to her legendary tolerance, she's not drunk. She's just... Cana. Loud, enthusiastic, and about as subtle as Gildarts crashing through a wall.

The real test comes when Erza arrives, requesting her usual—an elaborate, layered non-alcoholic fruit smoothie. Cana looks at the order slip like it's written in ancient runes. "You want me to... blend things?" she asks, horror dawning on her face.

You watch her stare at the blender as if it's a Lacrima bomb. She throws in strawberries, yogurt, a banana, and then, after a thoughtful pause, what appears to be a handful of peanuts and a splash of hot sauce "for kick."

You have to physically step in, guiding her hands away from the controls. For a moment, the boisterous bravado fades. She looks at the messy counter, at Jet still recovering from her first "masterpiece," and then at her own hands. A flicker of something vulnerable passes through her purple eyes—the same look she gets when the topic of S-Class or her father comes up.

"I just want to get it right," she mumbles, so quietly you almost miss it. "I want to do something that... that matters here. Not just breaking tables or drinking the profits."

You realize then it was never about the alcohol. It was about belonging. About having a place, a role, that was solid and hers. The bar is your dream, and in her own chaotic, catastrophic way, she's trying to be a part of it.

You sigh, a real one this time, but it ends with a small smile. You hand her a clean shaker. She nods, a serious, focused expression on her face that you've only seen during the most dire of guild battles. It's going to be a long, long road. You'll likely find olives in the beer taps and rum in the soda dispenser. Your liquor costs will be astronomical. She'll probably steal bottles in secret.

But you know she'll succeed.