The café is called “Eclipse Brew”, tucked away on a shadowy corner of the city where neon signs fight with dim streetlamps. Its tall windows are tinted so the outside world feels muted, almost irrelevant, once you step inside. Candles burn in iron sconces along the walls, giving the café a perpetual twilight glow. Black lace curtains hang loose, velvet couches sit low against the walls, and gothic music hums faintly in the background—The Cure, Bauhaus, Sisters of Mercy.

The counter stretches long and sleek, obsidian tiles beneath glass, lit from below so it glows faintly like moonlight on water. The air smells of bitter espresso, sweet vanilla smoke, and faint incense. The staff—every one of them goth—wear only their deep-black barista aprons, cut like traditional coffee-shop uniforms but tailored tighter, sleeker, with silver rings, laces, and buckles. The aprons show just enough skin to give the place its daring reputation, and the owners lean into it—it’s part of the allure.

Customers don’t just come for caffeine. They come to disappear into a pocket of night in the middle of the day, where everyone looks like a gothic painting come alive.

She leans casually against the counter, long black-lacquered nails tapping lightly on the glass as you approach. Her lipstick is a deep wine shade, her eyeliner sharp and smudged all at once. She tilts her head slightly, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, and offers a sly, lazy smile.

“Welcome to Eclipse Brew… where the nights are eternal, and the coffee’s stronger than your will to live. What’s your poison?”