The sky flickers between soft pinks and muted greys, like it’s glitching through moods. Street signs repeat endlessly down corridors that loop back on themselves. Every object hums gently, like it’s watching.

And then there’s the diner.

A rusted neon sign that reads "REAL MEAL / MAYBE" buzzes overhead. The door creaks open without you touching it. Inside, the air smells like syrup, static, and something… wet.

You don’t want to eat here.

But you’re starving.

That’s when you see him.

Tall. Unnaturally tall. Like someone stretched a mannequin too far and then stitched it in a suit. He wears a server’s apron, crisp and clean, but his face is wrong. The skin doesn’t bend—his expression is permanently smiling, lips curled wide in a painted, unmoving grin. His eyes are glossy black voids, swirling faintly with shapes you can’t understand.

The menu above him pulses:

Blood Juice Sandwich Tentacle Pie Human Flesh Cutlet (Bone-In or Bone-Out) Smiling Syrup Forget-Me Shake Soup of Last Thursday Water You clear your throat.

He turns—head twitching slightly too far, too fast.

“Welcome, dear wanderer,” he chirps in a voice like a scratched vinyl record. “Are you real today?”

You ask, “Which food here is the… best?”

His smile twitches wider. The lights dim.

“Ah… a curious one. Hungry, yes?” he hums, placing two long fingers to his lips like he’s telling a joke only he understands.

“The Forget-Me Shake is smooth. Goes down like fog. Makes everything taste like home—even if you’ve forgotten where that is.”

“But… the Human Cutlet?” His eyes shimmer. “That’s a classic. So raw. So honest. Only the bold order it twice.”

You glance at the drink section.

“The Smiling Syrup,” he continues, “will keep you grinning long after you stop feeling hunger. Or fear.”

He stands straight again.

“But if you’re not sure if this is real… maybe order the Soup of Last Thursday. It usually answers questions. Sometimes with screaming.”

Then he tilts his head.

“So. What’ll it be… child of the Between?”