Chapter 3
"So from the top, what happened?"
"Well, I was just closing up shop as usual, then suddenly these two hooligans burst into my cafe, right?"
"Uh huh?"
"Then…"
The night air was split and stained by the oscillating glare of emergency lights. Blue and red pulsed across the front of Aiko's cafe, courtesy of the police cruiser parked directly by the entrance, its engine idling with a steady, low-frequency hum that vibrated.
Two uniformed officers worked the scene. One was currently receiving an earful from the thugs—now awake, cuffed, and loaded with impotent rage—who were screaming curses and venting their frustration at being caught by an invisible force. The other was interviewing Aiko. The elderly woman, composed but energized and descriptive with her accounts, was clearly the more cooperative of the two parties.
The source of the criminals' ire, and the unwilling star of the investigation, stood not too far away, watching the proceedings.
All his life, Toji had been an expert in evasion and obscurity. As a man whose occupation was a walking felony in his own world, he'd learned to leave no trails, keep no paper records, and maintain a profile so low he was practically subterranean. He was acutely aware that in this new dimension, he was an anomaly—a man with no history, no prints, and no digital footprint. If he were to be formally detained and investigated, the fragile scaffolding of his newfound "peaceful life" would collapse instantly.
As such, he was slightly uncomfortable with the proximity of law enforcement, but Aiko's earlier, quite vocal declaration of naming him as her savior had utterly destroyed any chance he had of slipping into the city's shadows unnoticed.
"Then Fushiguro-san arrived!" she was shouting, punctuating her story with wildly theatrical gestures. "He was like boom, boom, and pow!" She punctuated the movements with earnest sound effects, her eyes sparkling with the memory of unexpected action.
Toji just stood there, the cool night air prickling the skin of his arms. He found himself, for the second time that evening, wondering if saving the old woman—a purely instinctive, unplanned expenditure of energy—had been a catastrophic tactical error. He did not exactly appreciate how Aiko was herding unwanted, official attention directly toward him.
She eventually concluded her descriptive storytelling with a decisive clap of her hands, and with it, his turn arrived. The lead officer, who had been listening to her with an air of professional patience, now turned his gaze toward Toji.
The man was tall, his lean frame entirely encased in the rigid, structured shell of state authority. The signature tan overcoat and matching hat were not worn casually; they were positioned with an almost military exactitude, framing the black suit and the stringent knot of the green tie beneath. The entire ensemble screamed protocol and unyielding adherence to the law.
His short, black hair was perfectly neat, and his eyes—rectangular, sharp, and intensely black—locked onto Toji momentarily, running a quick, professional assessment over his imposing physique. That split, almost imperceptible moment of cold scrutiny vanished, and the man's demeanor transformed into a more practiced, friendly one as he approached Toji with his hand outstretched.
"Hello there, my name's Naomasa Tsukauchi," he smiled, the politeness almost as unnerving as the earlier assessment. Toji disliked the formality, but he wasn't going to antagonize the police; he was too close to escaping the scene. He shook the officer's hand with a firm, quick grip. "I'd just like to firstly express my gratitude for the kind act you did, helping out Ms. Aiko. I was the nearest officer, but I wouldn't want to imagine what could have happened if you had not intervened. For that, you have my thanks."
"No problem," Toji replied, the words clipped and flat.
"Now, I'd just like to ask you a few things about what happened, just to make sure everything checks out, sound good?" Tsukauchi pulled out a small, functional notepad and clicked a pen with a precise sound.
"Yeah."
"In your words, what happened?"
Toji then recounted the sequence of events, stripping away Aiko's enthusiastic embellishments to deliver only the cold, hard facts. He described the thugs' attempted violence, and his defensive intervention. The officer listened, his gaze fixed on the notepad, occasionally making small, neat marks. He seemed pleased that Toji's factual account matched the essentials of Aiko's theatrical one.
"I see, thank you," Tsukauchi closed his notepad, the click of the pen holster sounding like a final verdict. He refocused his gaze to Toji, his expression shifting slightly. "Are you a Pro Hero?"
"No."
"I see," Tsukauchi hummed, the sound non-committal. "Now, I can see very well that your actions were done in self-defense, and in defense of Ms. Aiko, but just a cautionary warning. The act of carrying out any heroic duties without a license is considered vigilantism and does go against the law."
"I know."
"That's good, I just wanted to make sure, as I wouldn't want you getting into any trouble," The officer cracked a small, functional smile, before turning to address both Toji and Aiko. "Well then, I believe that's it. I'll be keeping in touch, just in case. Thank you for your cooperation, and I hope you two have a good evening."
Tsukauchi and his partner then professionally guided the subdued thugs into the back of their car, citing them their rights as they did so.
Just as the vehicle was about to pull away, Tsukauchi peeked his head out of the driver's side window. "Sorry, one last thing. What's your name again, mister…?"
"Fushiguro," Toji replied cautiously. "Fushiguro Toji."
"I see, thank you again!" And with that final, polite dismissal, the vehicle sped off, its red and blue lights swallowed quickly by the city's vast darkness.
Inside the police car, Tsukauchi mused silently to himself as they drove, eventually voicing his thoughts to his partner once they were a considerable distance away.
"Did something about that guy seem off to you?"
"Which guy? The one with the old lady?"
"Yeah him."
"Aside from how jacked he is? Nah, not really."
"Hmm."
"Why, what are you thinking, partner?"
"Nothing, I guess I'm just tired," Tsukauchi shook away the odd, cold feeling that Toji's flat gaze had left him with.
It was probably nothing. Probably.
/ - /
After they had both watched the police car retreat, the sudden silence of the street was replaced by the low hiss of the downpour beginning. Aiko noticed the further darkening sky.
"Oh my, it's pretty late, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I suppose I shouldn't keep you any longer then, I'm sure you're tired," the elderly woman smiled kindly. "If you'd like I can start teaching you the basics tomorrow, we can meet back here in the morning?"
"Sure."
"Great! Thank you again, and safe travels on your way home!"
Toji slightly tensed, his entire body going rigid. Shit. The sudden, deep realization hit him: he didn't have a place to stay. He could sense the pity in Aiko's eyes, and for a brief, shameful moment, he considered asking—
'No.' He shook himself internally. He had already imposed on her plenty, and got a job practically handed to him on a silver platter. He still possessed a semblance of pride, however withered, and he wasn't going to beg for a bed.
As if to amplify his misery and taunt his foolish pride, a heavy boom of thunder suddenly struck the sky as rain began to truly lash down. Life, it seemed, really did have a way of making things harder for him.
"Is everything alright?" Aiko's voice interrupted him, concerned. He realized she was looking at him with an uncomfortable intensity.
"I…" Toji felt an unwanted wave of heat rush to his face, a raw sense of embarrassment that he hadn't experienced since he was a child being looked down upon by the Zenin elders. His eyes latched onto anything else but her kind, warm gaze. He forced himself to swallow the shard of pride—or whatever bitter, useless remnant he had left. "I don't—"
Aiko's eyes widened, a sudden, acute pity softening their edges. "Oh, you poor thing, you don't have anywhere to stay?"
Normally, pity (from a non-sorcerer of all people) was a precursor to scorn, something he would have met with immediate hostility. But this time, though the shame burned, he didn't absolutely abhor it, not completely at least.
He chose to nod in reply, the small movement costing him more energy than the fight with the thugs. "Just... for tonight," he then quickly added, injecting a false note of bravado. "I'll repay you."
In his prime days of gambling, he'd squandered much, if not all the money he'd earn on his missions. It was a bad habit that had forced upon him many debts he never really paid off. But, for this old lady, deep down, he surprisingly did mean it.
"Please, don't worry, I really don't mind at all, you can stay for longer if you need to," she insisted.
Her kindness truly knew no bounds. Every rational part of him would have screamed that she had some other intentions, perhaps she was a serial killer that wanted his organs. However, it perplexed him that his senses were telling him that he could trust her words, which honestly sounded even scarier.
"You don't have to go so far for me," he frowned, trying to find the angle, the motive.
"Nonsense," she probably noticed his lips part, anticipating his next objection, as she quickly added. "And, if you really wish to pay me back, you'll already be doing so by working for me, no?"
He would be the one benefiting the most. He was beginning to find, however, that this woman truly didn't care what he had to say or think on the matter. With that defeated thought in mind, he let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Whatever," he grumbled, the single word an exhausted surrender, as he followed her lead.
/ - /
Once they entered, Aiko rushed ahead of him. "Wait here! I'll prepare your room for you!"
Her words slowly registered as he finally regarded his surroundings.
The inside of Aiko's abode felt like an organic extension of her cafe's comforting charm. His various one-night stands in the past had offered him places to stay, but they never felt like this. This place felt like a sanctuary—a blanket of architecture and carpentry that somehow stood firmly as a shield from the abrasive outside world.
What struck him first was the scent. It was a soft, layered blend of cinnamon and dried citrus, underscored by the faint, earthy sweetness of tatami mats and old wood. It was the smell of stability, of quiet routine, and of home.
The light was low and golden, filtered through paper shojiscreens that softened the edges of the room. Every surface seemed to have a history. He stepped onto a dark wooden floor that felt worn smooth by decades of footsteps, leading into a small, open living space. A bulky, overstuffed armchair sat beside a low table piled with knitting materials and outdated magazines.
Everywhere was a tactile softness: knitted blankets draped casually over a faded floral sofa, plump pillows scattered on the tatami area, and the visual warmth of a small bookshelf overflowing with well-loved volumes. There was a quiet lack of concern for perfection, he noted; the space was slightly cluttered, but with objects that suggested comfort and history, not neglect. The place fit well with its owner: kind and genuine.
He couldn't remember the last time any place felt like a home to him. Not since—
Toji bit his lip, ruthlessly refocusing his attention as his gaze landed on one wall where a carefully arranged collage of photographs rested. They captured quite intimate moments, no doubt beginning with a younger Aiko, though as he looked closer, he noticed many of them included a man and a young boy.
Almost like a family.
"Hey!" His neck snapped in response to her voice. Aiko appeared right beside him, a hint of breathless speed in her movement. "It's ready."
"Lead the way."
Aiko led him down the narrow hallway. His room was small, at least in proportion to his hulking silhouette, lit by a single ceiling fixture that cast soft shadows upon the space.
The room was overwhelmingly tidy, meticulously scrubbed clean of personal clutter. Yet, there were subtle vestiges of youth that the extensive cleaning couldn't quite erase. The high placement of the hooks on the back of the door were slightly lower than normal, as if they were meant for a child. A faint, hair-thin scratch mark marred the bottom corner of the wooden wall paneling, low enough to have been made by a small foot or toy.
He noticed the empty space above the low, built-in shelf contained only a single, generic ceramic vase. The bareness of that shelf felt less like minimalism and more like a deliberate erasure.
Toji's sharp gaze briefly caught on these small anomalies—the faint impression of a life once lived within these four walls—and a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even recognition of loss, tugged at his mind. A kid's room, he deduced, noting the slight air of melancholic vacancy that pervaded the otherwise comforting space.
But Toji was spent, so he couldn't care less at that moment whose room it was he was setting foot in.
'Not my problem,' he thought dismissively, extinguishing the useless curiosity with practiced ease.
"It's not much, but I hope it's to your liking."
"It's nice," Toji blurted out, the praise slipping out before he could filter it. The word felt honest, genuine, and surprisingly easy to say. He didn't know if he'd said it for comfort, but it seemed to have that effect. Not that he'd fuss over it, quickly recovering.
"Thank you," Aiko smiled. There it was again—that blinding, uncomplicated pleasure in his acknowledgment.
He simply nodded to Aiko, a curt acceptance of the room and all the unwelcome kindness it represented. The old lady then walked away, but paused slightly as she was halfway out the door.
"Have a good night, Fushiguro-san."
Being left alone, the former Sorcerer Killer allowed his body to fall onto the futon, the mattress's soft embrace instantly welcoming him. He stared up onto the ceiling, recounting the day's impossible events.
He'd been rejected, again. But, he'd also found acceptance within some stranger. An old lady, much too magnanimous for her own good, had given him a job and a roof over his head. The very reminder of the unconditional acts of goodwill he'd received made him want to fidget, to get out of the bed and to storm out. He was never one to be a recipient of goodwill—every relationship he had was transactional. Yet there he was.
He wasn't sure really where each emotion—embarrassment, anger, gratitude—began and ended. He had never had such treatment from the Zenin clan; every day was a constant, exhausting battle for him to prove his worth. He'd break his body past its limits just to try and earn their validation, but it was never enough. He was a failure to them, and they made sure he knew it.
Yet, this old lady thought him deserving of so much just for one simple act. It rattled him to his core.
He wasn't quite sure where to go from here, but one thing was for certain. He'd find a way to pay her back. That resolve was his last conscious thought, as darkness finally engulfed his senses.
/ - /
Toji emerged from his room, his body feeling the unsettling novelty of being truly well-rested. The kitchen was already alive with the sharp, comforting scent of fresh coffee and the gentle sizzle of frying eggs. He found Aiko, who had her back turned, humming a soft melody to herself as she prepared breakfast.
She noticed him without turning. "Good morning!"
"Morning," he replied softly, the word unfamiliar on his tongue, as he took his seat at the low dining table.
"How would you like your eggs, Fushiguro-san?"
A beat. "Over easy."
"Okay!"
Toji watched silently as she cooked with a graceful, practiced economy of motion, her smile serene. When she finished, she set his plate right in front of him before taking her seat. It was a plate with a pair of nicely browned bread and the eggs he'd requested.
She was looking at him once again in expectation, her bright, gentle eyes waiting for his approval. He tried to ignore it, focusing on the food. He picked up the toast with the eggs, the radiant heat of the fresh bread registering against his calloused fingertips. Then, he took a large, efficient bite.
The sensation was simple, yet profound: the sharp, dry crackle of the toast, the silky surrender of the egg white, and then the rich, hot burst of golden yolk coating his mouth. He chewed until all vestiges were swallowed.
Unintentionally, a low, guttural hum of satisfaction left his lips. A quick worried look crossed Aiko's face.
"Is it not good?"
Much too quickly for his own liking, Toji said, his eyes firmly on the plate. "It's good. I like it."
He did. Really. It had been a very long time since he'd had a proper, home-cooked meal that tasted of more than mere fuel. The simple, uncomplicated warmth blanketed his entire body, like an unconditional, comforting embrace.
Aiko beamed, her pleasure genuine. "I'm glad."
"How was your sleep?"
"Good," Toji replied, trying to keep up with the idle, domestic conversation as he continued to eat.
"That's good," Aiko paused to finish the food in her mouth. "If you don't mind my asking, if you're from around here, then why don't you have a place to stay?"
"Broke." Was his only response.
"Oh," She frowned once again, that soft pity in her eyes that he still couldn't get accustomed to. "And you don't have any family in the area either?"
His expression grew momentarily dark, the scar on his lip pulling tight as he suppressed the familiar, volcanic resentment. "I don't have a family."
Toji expected the usual stream of comfort or pity. Instead, Aiko remained silent for a second longer than usual. Her crestfallen expression this time didn't seem just angled toward his circumstances, but rather at something distant, a look of profound, shared understanding appearing in her eyes. It was a flicker of something long past and deep, almost as if she understood what he was going through, or had lived through it herself.
"I see," she finally let out, the words soft with genuine empathy. "I understand how hard it can be."
Almost instantly after, as if a switch was flipped, she returned back to her jolly self. "Anyways! Let's move on to something less saddening."
"What kind of work were you looking for yesterday?"
'Right, talking about how I didn't even make the cut for a job is less saddening,' Toji thought morosely, the irony not lost on him, even if it was for her.
He grabbed a cup of coffee, taking a quick sip before replying. "Bodyguard."
"And you—"
"Got rejected."
"How?!" Despite having expected the response, Aiko still looked genuinely shocked. "You seem so strong though."
"Don't got a quirk," Toji shrugged nonchalantly, spearing a piece of toast. "Other guy had one, so it was simple enough for them to decide."
"Their loss," she remarked indignantly, before grinning. "How lucky for me then, to snag you as my new employee."
"Yeah, lucky." He didn't really believe in luck. If so, he was probably the unluckiest bastard alive. Ironically, the only thing he had had luck in was staying alive.
"Besides," she smiled. "You can be my bodyguard instead."
His heart felt unusually warm at that moment. Though, whether it was her kind words actually having an effect on him or that he could feel his heart being the reason that made his eyes widen, he didn't really want to know. He forced his surprise down, his eyes widening briefly.
"Tell me about working at the cafe," he said suddenly, abruptly changing the topic. Thankfully, she went with it.
"We'll start simple with the cash register, Fushiguro-san," she began, her voice a low, soothing cadence that sounded like the distant cooing of doves. "It's old, bless its heart, so don't push the buttons too hard, especially the 'No Sale' key. And the local delivery man, Ken-chan, he likes his coffee extra hot, you'll burn yourself if you aren't careful. He comes right after the 9 am rush. And oh, the milk steamer! I swear, that machine fights me every morning. It makes such a ruckus, but if you treat it right, the foam comes out like velvet."
She spoke about the rhythms of the cafe, the eccentricities of the regulars, and the challenges of sourcing good tea leaves. It was all information Toji had absolutely no context for, topics ranging from local gossip to the proper cleaning solution for the stainless steel counter. He had no interest in Ken-chan's coffee preference or the history of her tea supplier.
Yet, he didn't interrupt. He didn't offer any offhanded comments. He simply kept eating, allowing the gentle, uninterrupted flow of Aiko's voice to wash over him.
It wasn't that he was captivated by the content; he just felt... at ease. When was the last time he'd sat down and was simply living in the present? Admiring the scenery around him, allowing the warm air to flow through his lungs, his muscles loosening up. He'd spent most of his life simply surviving, never truly experiencing life in its entirety, for killing to prove himself was all he'd ever known.
Yet now, as he was in a world with no sorcerers to kill, no bounty to accept, no Zenin presence lording its control over him, he was able to simply be present. It was a strange, unexpected comfort—the feeling of someone carrying the burden of meaningless conversation, and actually, somehow, enjoying his company for no other reason than such, allowing him to savor the food and the absence of conflict.
They continued eating, the only sounds being the soft clink of porcelain and the chewing of food accompanying Aiko's voice. The rising morning sun slanted through the paper screens, filling the small room as they finished the rest of the meal in deep, contented silence—the best kind he could remember.
Aiko may have been seeing things, but she could have sworn that she caught the glimpse of a ghost of an indiscernible smile almost tugging on the corners of Toji's lips sometime during the meal.
Chapter 4
The interior of Aiko's Cafe, usually a haven of quiet reflection, was now filled with the screech of machinery and the frustrated sighs of its massive new employee. The morning sun was just beginning to warm the glass storefront, but the air around the espresso machine was thick with steam, humidity, and unspoken tension.
"Now, remember, Fushiguro-san," Aiko instructed patiently, her hands hovering near the machine like a calm sorceress over a dangerous curse tool. "You must tamp the grounds evenly. Think of it like a foundation—firm, but not crushed. If it's too loose, the water runs too fast and you get weak coffee."
'Yeah, yeah.' he thought to himself, not used to having somebody directly oversee him on something, much less be taught. Growing up, he'd learned to fend for himself, to learn how to survive on his own, since his own family deemed it a waste to teach a monkey. Everything he learned was by being thrust into the jaws of death, and finding his way out.
Yet, here he was in a cafe. Early in the morning, which Aiko deemed as the perfect opportunity to start learning, as they'd have ample time just before the cafe would open to have him learn the ropes of his new job.
And here she was, directing his every moment with soft but clear instruction. It was slightly unnerving to him. Well, the whole ordeal was unnerving to him, really.
'What the hell am I doing," Toji sighed in resignation, looming over the sleek stainless steel machine, and grabbed the tamper. As a man whose entire skill set revolved around applying lethal force with pinpoint accuracy, he approached the delicate task with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert. He positioned the small metal device over the portafilter—the handle holding the coffee grounds—and compressed the beans.
His firm was, predictably (to anyone but himself), excessive. He leaned into the tamper with the full, conditioned weight of his upper body. The coffee grounds became a solid, impenetrable disc of compressed matter.
Aiko peered at the result. "Oh, dear. Fushiguro-san, that's… that's practically granite. We're making coffee, not paving the road. If the water can't get through, we just get a frustrated machine and a very dry brick of espresso." She gently plucked the portafilter from his grasp. "See? Use less body. It's all in the wrist."
"I can do it," he stated flatly, stubbornly focused on achieving success as he reached out a hand the size of a dinner plate.
"Of course you can, dear," Aiko responded, handing him a fresh filter. "But try it gently. This machine—the milk steamer in particular—is a temperamental beast. It rewards patience, not brute force."
Toji frowned, a deep, annoyed crease forming between his eyebrows. He wasn't gentle, he never had to be gentle. Gentle meant being soft, and being soft would mean being slow, and slowing down would be akin to signing his own death warrant. It was very much against everything he'd grown up accustomed to, yet now he was supposed to do the opposite?
Then again, he was no longer in the world of Jujutsu, was he.
…
He tried again. This time, he used slightly less force, resulting in grounds that were still packed too hard. Aiko nodded encouragingly, but swapped the filter once more.
"Better. Now, the machine," she moved to the chrome milk steamer nozzle, her movements precise. "When steaming milk, you need to introduce air just below the surface for only a second or two. Listen for the sound—it should be a gentle shhhh sound, like a contented cat."
Toji watched the demonstration. He then took the pitcher of cold milk and positioned the nozzle. He was efficient, but he skipped the gentle part entirely. He plunged the nozzle deep into the milk and cranked the steam valve wide open.
The machine responded with the fury of a startled beast.
The steam erupted with a terrifying screeeeech that ricocheted off the tiled walls. The cold milk was instantly converted into a frantic, roaring geyser of boiling froth and milk spatter. A massive, violent bubble formed and burst, showering Toji's cheek with a sticky spray.
Toji remained utterly still, not flinching from the heat or the noise, but his eyes narrowed in a slow burn of annoyance. He had faced down sorcerers and cursed spirits with less hostility than this antique cafe appliance.
Aiko laughed—a warm, genuine peal of amusement that cut through the hiss. "Oh, my! I told you she was feisty! See, that was the machine fighting you, Fushiguro-san. You sank the nozzle too deep too quickly, and she was cross." She wiped the splatter from his cheek with a clean towel.
"Let me try again," Toji grunted, eager to rectify the wound dealt to his pride by the inanimate object.
"All right, but remember the cat. Shhh," Aiko whispered the sound.
Toji took a new pitcher, decidingly ignoring the cat comment as he was beginning to tire of the analogy. He carefully held it at the right angle, placed the nozzle just at the surface, and listened for the sound of the steam. He was still too fast on the valve, but this time, he caught the error. The machine gave a loud WHOOSH, followed by a series of angry, sputtering coughs. The resulting foam was airy but full of gigantic, useless bubbles.
Aiko watched the milk settle. "Almost! You are so close. Now, look at the foam. It should look like velvet, not bath suds." She demonstrated once more, pulling the lever with practiced delicacy. The result was a shining, perfect microfoam.
Toji watched the demonstration intently, his gaze mapping the precise angle and timing of her wrist. He wouldn't ask for help again. He grabbed the pitcher one final time, his movements slowing down to a hyper-precise calibration.
He positioned the nozzle. He focused on the shhh. He moved the valve.
For a moment, there was no chaotic screech. There was just the low, steady hiss of pressurized air integrating perfectly with the liquid. He pulled the pitcher down just slightly, and the sound softened into a contented, whispering sigh. He turned off the valve with a clean, deliberate click.
He set the pitcher down. The milk was dense, glossy, and perfectly textured.
He looked at Aiko, his expression still neutral, but his eyes held a flicker of grudging satisfaction.
"See?" Toji said, some unexpected pride lacing his deep voice. "Told you I could do it."
"Good job, Fushiguro-san," she smiled sweetly at him, and somehow her warmth found a way to creep into him as his heart seemed to hum in satisfaction at the praise.
Aiko chuckled, patting his arm. "I never doubted you for a second. Now, let's make a latte. It seems you're ready to conquer the espresso machine."
She pulled a clean white mug closer to him, which already held a dark, fragrant shot of espresso. The scent of bitter, roasted coffee mixed pleasantly with the faint humidity of the milk.
"This is where many baristas fail," Aiko continued, her tone now turning technical. "You need to pour the milk slowly, integrating it with the espresso so the flavors marry beautifully. Then, when the cup is about three-quarters full, you lower the pitcher and introduce the foam—that's how we get the little design."
Toji nodded, grabbing the pitcher of perfect microfoam he had just created. He looked at the cup, then at the thick, leathery muscles of his forearm. The movement required felt impossibly small and delicate.
"I can do it," he stated again, ignoring Aiko's subtle reach to guide his hand.
He tilted the cup, brought the pitcher close, and—with the controlled momentum he usually reserved for hurling heavy weapons—he began to pour.
The result was a disaster. Instead of a slow integration, the milk rushed out of the pitcher in a thick, overly aggressive stream. The perfect foam drowned the espresso entirely, creating a muddy, beige explosion. The entire process took less than two seconds.
The mug now contained a cloudy, homogenous sludge, topped with a few scattered white bubbles. It looked less like a latte and more like swamp water churned by a small outboard motor.
Aiko paused, looking at the mug with an expression that was half-amusement, half-sympathy for the wasted foam. "Ah. Well. That was certainly… decisive, Fushiguro-san. You approached that with great speed, but you missed the 'slow' part entirely."
Toji glared at the mug, feeling a disproportionate surge of annoyance. He could dismantle a concrete wall, but he couldn't pour some damn milk correctly. This is why he just preferred tea.
"The key here is control and patience," Aiko explained, gently taking the disastrous cup away and retrieving a new one. "The pouring hand must be steady, and the stream must be thin and continuous. We're aiming for a ballet, not a bar fight."
Toji frowned at the concept of a 'ballet'. "Who even cares about the art," he grumbled, pointing at the foam in Aiko's perfect demonstration cup. "It's just coffee."
"No, you may not care about the art," Aiko agreed, smiling softly. "But others do. Plus, you need the technique behindthe art. If you pour too fast, the layers don't mix, and the customer ends up drinking plain milk first, and then bitter espresso mud at the bottom. It's about balance."
He understood balance at least. Balance was essential to fighting.
"One more," he insisted, retrieving a fresh, hot espresso shot. His mind was already calculating the necessary fluid dynamics, converting the weight of the pitcher and the distance to the cup into a controlled variable.
Despite the fact that frustration had crept into his mind once more, he tried to simmer it down. Preparing himself to do it right, he focused on Aiko's words, which suddenly began being replaced by a different voice as a particular memory gripped his mind.
/ - /
The kitchen, clean and bright under the glow of the overhead light, felt impossibly small and intensely hot. Toji gripped the handle of the knife, his massive, corded hand fighting the delicate task of mincing herbs. The air was thick with the sharp scent of garlic and the frustrating smell of food that had been approached with more force than finesse. He'd managed to scorch the edges of the onion and possibly even ruined the whole dish. His capacity for instantaneous, brutal efficiency was lost in translation, and created a disaster in the kitchen.
He never really cared about how food would be made or how it tasted, just as long as the calories kept his body going. Food had always been fuel—a utility. It being a deliberate, creative process was a foreign language he never had the chance to understand. His jaw was set, and the muscle in his neck strained, locking him in an ireful state that was solely focused on conquering the domestic challenge.
Then again, he'd never been in love before either, not truly. This new, overwhelming devotion—this sudden, painful need to create something beautiful, even something as simple as a decent meal, just for her—was a terrifying sensation. And so, he supposed the clumsy, frustrating struggle was worth enduring.
He was glowering at the slightly burnt remains of his attempt when her hand, small and soft, slipped over his. She was quiet, letting the low sizzle of the pan fill the space, her presence a calming anchor against the storm of his pride.
"You know," she began, her voice a gentle, melodic hum. She lifted her head, and her eyes found his. She didn't look at the ruined food or the aggressive tension in his shoulders; she simply looked at him. Her smile, warm and utterly free of judgment, just perfectly made him melt, like ice struck by a sudden wave of heat. It was a smile that softened him up so easily, stripping away the rough, hardened layers he had spent a lifetime constructing. The damn woman had a hold on his heart so strong, so complete, he didn't think there was anything in this new, fragile life he wouldn't do for her—even face down his own incompetence.
"You don't have to be so hard on yourself," she murmured, her voice laced with understanding. "It's just you and me here, no one's going to fault you for stumbling. You know I won't. So come on, let's try it again. Slowly, this time. We'll do it together. Okay?"
He looked down at the soft curve of her smile, at the unwavering faith in her eyes. The frustration, the deep, personal shame of his failure, dissolved into a weary submission.
"Okay."
/ - /
The memory seemed to calm him down.
'Okay.'
He took a deep breath. He held the pitcher, his massive hand strangely steady. He tilted the mug, brought the pitcher close, and this time, he loosened his grip slightly, allowing only a thin, smooth ribbon of milk to flow.
He watched the brown liquid turn a beautiful, consistent caramel color. He kept the stream slow, letting the cup fill steadily. When it was nearly full, he lowered the pitcher slightly, introducing a small dollop of white foam onto the surface.
The resulting drink was utilitarian. It contained no hearts, no rosettas, no leaves. The surface was a clean, uninterrupted expanse of creamy white that met the rich tan of the coffee perfectly. It was, however, a perfectly functional latte.
Toji set the pitcher down with a controlled clink. He looked at the drink, then at Aiko, a single, silent challenge in his eyes.
'I got it.'
Aiko reached out, picking up the cup and examining the surface. She took a quick sip, her eyes closing in quiet appreciation. When she opened them, her smile was genuine and proud.
"Perfectly balanced," she affirmed. "This is a lovely latte, Fushiguro-san."
His shoulders seemed to visibly loosen up, having been unintentionally tense as he awaited her response. A sliver of satisfaction worming its way to his facial features, making him appear a tad less gloomy.
"And I think that's enough for the morning rush, you'll learn more as you go. Besides, I wouldn't want to exhaust your talents before the cafe even opens."
Toji just nodded, the lesson finally concluded. The cafe appliance had been momentarily defeated. He turned to the towel rack, already calculating the next unnecessary hurdle Aiko would undoubtedly throw in his path.
"Excellent," Aiko said, clapping her hands together with a decisive finality. "Now that the coffee station is handled, we must prepare the rest. The first rush will be here in less than an hour, and people, my dear, eat with their eyes."
She led him to the long, glass-fronted counter that housed the day's pastries. The trays were filled with an assortment of meticulously braided Danish pastries, glistening fruit tarts, and rows of fluffy croissants.
"Before we can be fully ready for service, we, or rather, you must work on the presentation," she informed him, gesturing to the fresh delivery. "I need you to arrange these croissants artfully on this tiered stand. They must look tempting, not messy."
Toji stared at the delicate, golden-brown pastries. The task required an eye for aesthetics and a touch that was even gentler than tamping coffee grounds. His large, scarred hands, built for snapping necks and wielding cursed tools, felt entirely out of place in this environment of brittle baked goods. Not that they didn't already.
He picked up the first croissant. It was warm and feathery light. He tried to place it 'artfully' on the stand. His idea of artful placement was a compact, efficient stack, doing so like he was packing his luggage for a flight, stuffing all contents as closely together as possible.
Aiko watched him for five seconds. The croissant stand looked less like a display and more like a carefully constructed, edible barricade.
"Oh, no, no, no," she chuckled softly, stepping in. "We aren't building a bunker, Fushiguro-san. We want them to breathe. Think of it like a lovely hillside—gentle, inviting slopes. You must allow the light to catch the curves. Space, dear, is your friend."
Toji's lips thinned, pulling his hand away as if he'd been scolded. "Why not just put them on the rack. They're going to get eaten anyway."
"Yes, but the ritual of the morning coffee is important," Aiko insisted. "The anticipation, the presentation—it makes the first sip taste better. Try making small, inviting piles, leaving room between them."
He tried again. He used two fingers, treating the pastry like it might spontaneously combust. He managed to create three small, widely-spaced piles. They were neat, but they lacked any kind of organic appeal; they looked more like geometrically placed obstacles.
"Closer! But they look a little… lonely," Aiko observed, gently nudging one croissant to rest against another. "A little touch, a subtle lean—like friends whispering secrets."
Toji's lip twitched in annoyance, failing to comprehend. He gave up on the concept of friends whispering secrets and instead focused on the purely practical objective.
'If she wants it messy, make it look deliberately messy but with structure.'
He began arranging the pastries with an odd, asymmetrical rhythm, stacking some, leaving others alone, using the shape of the stand to create varying heights. He completed the arrangement quickly, and while it wasn't the traditional "lovely hillside," it was certainly striking—a display of deliberate, chaotic imbalance that somehow drew the eye.
Aiko stood back, tilting her head. She examined the display—the way the shadows fell, the contrast between the organized trays and Toji's asymmetrical mountain of golden pastry.
"Well," she said, her voice filled with surprise. "It's certainly… commanding. It makes you want to reach out and grab one. Yes, I think that's quite good."
Toji merely grunted, satisfied that he hadn't failed. He crossed his arms over his chest, his immense frame filling the narrow space behind the counter. The espresso machine, the milk steamer, the pastry stand—he had dominated them all.
Aiko watched him, her smile softening into something more reflective. She saw the rough edges, the deep reluctance to be here, but also the meticulous precision he applied to every task, no matter how small. He was a force of nature forced into the quiet confines of a cafe, and it was fascinating to watch.
'Looks like he needs this just as much as I need the help,' she mused, adjusting her apron.
She checked the cash register—a heavy, ancient device that was both reliable and complex. "Alright, Fushiguro-san. It's almost time to open, I'll let you man the counter first, so you can get a hang of dealing with customers. Greet them when they approach, and take their orders."
"Alright," he nodded, watching as Aiko went to turn the sign on the front door so that the open side was facing outwards for all outsiders to see.
"And lastly," she started as she walked back towards him. "Make sure to smile!"
…
"Do I have to?" His eyebrows scrunched.
"Yes, of course!" she said. "A kind smile can go a long way for any one of our customers. It could make their day, you know."
'I still don't see how any of that has anything to do with me.' he thought, watching her put her fingers on the opposite ends of her lips.
"See!" she demonstrated, showing off her own pearly white teeth. "Like this! Now you try."
"Hmm," Toji paused, unsure how to begin, but he did his best. He managed to move his face muscles in a way that angled his mouth upwards to resemble a smile. However, it appeared to have the opposite effect on Aiko.
"Oh…" That did not sound like a good sign, prompting him to reset his expression back to its default.
"Well, I suppose just greeting them with a nice 'good morning, welcome to Aiko's!' would suffice," she chuckled sheepishly.
'Was my smile that bad?' he suddenly mused to himself as an afterthought. It's not that he never smiled, he knew how to smile in the context of smiling when he was happy. But, with no reason to smile at the moment, and the fact that he's never had to smile welcomingly to anybody, it was a challenge. 'Whatever.'
Aiko then began making her way behind the counter to a door on the back. She seemed to notice his questioning glance as she began to speak. "I will be in the back, starting the big batch brew, while you start working. I won't be gone long, so don't worry. It won't be that busy just yet anyway. Don't forget everything I taught you, okay?"
"Yeah."
With her one foot already in the door, she turned to shoot him a quick, mischievous grin. "Goodluck! Try not to fight any of the customers alright."
Her laughter was the last thing he heard as she vanished from sight. His gaze then refocused to the entrance, staring at it with bated breath as he counted the seconds until a person would walk through.
He didn't have to wait long.
The bell sharply jangling above the front door was the only sound. Toji stood absolutely still, his senses—used to tracking cursed spirits and assassins—now focused entirely on the swing of the door, and the abrupt sound of the outside world full of zooming vehicles, passing citizens, and idle conversations. It was cut off just as quickly when the door closed behind the first customer of the day.
A man wearing a faded blue delivery uniform—Ken-chan, the extra hot coffee man, as he recalled Aiko's description of him when she'd rambled on about the regulars—stepped inside. He looked up, his eyes meeting the immense, unwavering, and neutral gaze of the new barista.
Doing his best to form a seemingly friendly expression, he then said.
"Good morning, welcome to Aiko's."
"EEK!"
/ - /
Aiko wasn't worried.
She didn't hurry back to intervene with Toji's surely awkward front-of-house interactions; she trusted him.
Even if he had been a man she'd just met yesterday, she believed herself to be a pretty good judge of character. She's lived a long life, and though she'd admit to herself that her giddy optimism may appear misplaced at times, she knew people.
Sure, Toji was undeniably antisocial, brusque, and rough around the edges. Admittedly, she'd also been momentarily spooked by his towering physique and the intensity of his stare when she'd first come face to face with him. He projected an aura of danger, honed and cold, that was unmistakable.
But any kind of lasting apprehension or doubt she had towards his character faded just as soon as he'd entered her cafe. What first seemingly appeared to be a scary, dangerous character quickly resolved itself into something else: a lost, misunderstood soul. The more she spoke to him, the more she sensed the weariness beneath his nonchalant facade. Honestly, he reminded her of a black cat—skittish, fiercely independent, capable of scratching, but searching for a safe, warm space.
"He'll be fine," she mused, watching the swirling pool of dark, fragrant coffee settle. He still possessed a heart capable of helping others—of helping her, she'd been a witness to that. There was an almost delicate, deeply hidden part of him, she noticed, buried far past his rigid and cool exterior. He protected what he chose to protect with a terrifying competence, even if he didn't know how to accept the warmth of gratitude afterward.
Her mind drifted back to the night they met, to the moment she'd first gazed into his dark, uninterested eyes that spoke volumes of loneliness and isolation. They were the eyes of a man who expected nothing good from the world and had been consistently validated in that low expectation.
"I don't have a family," his words from breakfast echoed in her mind, flat, definitive, and stripped of all emotional appeal. The statement wasn't defiant; it was simply a statement of crushing fact.
Aiko felt the sharp, familiar tug of empathy toward her new employee. He was a man she did not know much at all about, yet he clearly carried a considerable weight of baggage upon his immense shoulders. What that weight was—the cause of his cynicism, the source of his profound distrust of simple kindness—she did not know. Whatever it was, it must have been scarring—a wound so deep it had hardened his very core against the more hopeful realities of life.
"What kind of life have you lived, Fushiguro-san?" she wondered. She wasn't worried about him, but she was worried for him. That night she met him, it appeared that he needed help just as much as she did. In more ways than one.
Aiko sighed.
She knew she couldn't heal the deep wounds of whatever existence he had fled. She was far from a therapist, and God knows she has her own problems. But she could offer an anchor.
'It doesn't always take a quirk, or a flashing cape, or a government license to be a hero,' she concluded, a quiet conviction settling in her chest. The big batch brew was nearly finished, steaming perfectly.
'Sometimes,' she thought, pouring the fresh, hot coffee into the large insulated urn, 'being a hero simply means helping the lost ones who happen to stumble within arm's reach.'
And right now, that was exactly what Fushiguro Toji was. Lost. And within her reach.
She knew she might only be a temporary fixture, a brief moment of stability in a storm-tossed life. But for now, he was under her roof, in her cafe, and learning the rhythms of patience and connection. That was enough.
Aiko smiled to herself, the warmth of the thought radiating outward. Then, she returned to the counter to see how Toji was doing. She was surprised to see that there had been no occupied seats. Though, she could have sworn that she'd heard the bell jingle while she had been gone.
She directed her attention to Toji, who was sporting his ever so trademark expression of aloofness.
"No customers?" she asked.
"There was."
"Was?"
"The Ken guy."
"Oh Ken-chan! Where'd he go?"
"He left."
"What? Why?" It appeared that by the look on his face that Toji did not know either.
He shrugged. "Don't know. He asked about you, and I said you were just in the back. Then he said he'd come back later."
"Oh," she then wondered what could have made the man leave. He was a regular who loved to stop by and linger just to bask in the ambiance of the place. Just then, her train of thought was interrupted as her eyes snapped to Toji himself. "You didn't…say anything to him, did you?"
Toji's eyebrows knitted. "No. Why?"
"Nothing, hmm," It's not that she didn't trust his account. Rather, she knew he was a little dense and she wouldn't have been surprised to know if he'd unintentionally scared the customer away. Toji was quite the intimidating figure to hold a conversation with.
Before she or Toji could further dwell on the mystery of their first customer of the day having fled from the cafe, the familiar sound of the bells jingling entered both of their ears as another customer entered.
She was delighted to find that she'd recognized the next customer. Another regular. She beamed happily at her as she approached the counter.
"Barb!"
The woman's gaze seemed to first settle on Toji, her expression surprised, before it mirrored Aiko's as she locked eyes with her. "Aiko!"
"How've you been!"
Barb smiled. "I've been well," she replied, before sighing. "Studying for my master's so haven't had much time to go out, being locked up in my room and all. I decided I'd take a break today, I missed your coffee."
"Well then, let's get you your coffee then, dear," Aiko then moved beside Toji to gesture to him. "Oh, and this is my new employee, Fushiguro-san, say hi."
"Hey," A beat. "What'll you be having?"
Aiko almost went to scold him for the curt greeting, but Barb chuckled at his expense. "Nice to meet you too, and uhm, I'll have an iced americano, please."
"Alright." Was Toji's only reply as he went to input her order into the cashier and ask her for the payment. After he'd received and stored it, he went to work on her coffee.
"Let's get you a seat while waiting, Barb," Aiko remarked as she went to her friend.
Barb nodded as they both fell into step. When they were a bit out of earshot, the younger woman asked. "What happened to the last one…Ai was it?"
"Yes," Aiko nodded, chuckling. "And, actually, he quit." Noticing her friend's confusion and simmering anger, she added. "Don't blame him for it, I'm happy for him. He's chasing his dream of becoming a hero now that he got that scholarship."
That seemed to placate Barb, who then cast a glance towards Toji. "Well, at least, you got a new one now. Speaking of, where'd you find him anyway?"
"Oh, you won't believe it, it's quite the story."
Barb quirked a brow. "Do tell."
"Oh, alright," Aiko then began to tell her all the events that had transpired leading up to her meeting Toji, as well as everything that happened after. Barb felt a great worry upon hearing about the robbers, but it subsided once she'd heard that Aiko got out okay and even got a new employee out of it.
Though some skepticism began to creep upon Barb's eyes towards the end of her storytelling. "He has no home?" she repeated.
"None at all," a pitiful expression crossed Aiko's face. "No family too."
"Aiko…" Barb began, concern finding its way into her voice. "Don't you think that he might…"
"Might?"
"Might be taking advantage of you?"
"What? Fushiguro-san?" Aiko repeated, perplexed, as if it sounded like the most absurd thing. "No no no, if anything, I'd understand if he was worried that I was taking advantage of him. I might be a serial killer for all he knows, luring him into my house."
"You aren't though," Barb frowned. "Think about it, Aiko. Guy appears out of nowhere, pretending to be your savior, then bam, he gets a job, free food, a house. Hell, those criminals might have even been on it. To con you and take everything you own!"
"What are you saying, Barb," Aiko said, surprised. "Firstly, Fushiguro-san helped me out of the goodness of his heart. Second, I offered him all of those things, he even objected to it at first but I was the one who insisted. Third, I clearly saw those criminals getting stuffed into the back of a police car, so they couldn't have been involved. And lastly, I just…I have a feeling he's not as bad as you make him out to be. He's a good guy."
"Who you just met yesterday," Barb supplied, but Aiko stared back, undeterred. "Aiko…"
"Barb…"
In the end, it was Barb who relented. "Fine, fine, I'll trust you on this, but if he does anything shady, do not hesitate to call the cops on his ass, alright?" Aiko nodded with a smile.
Her friend sighed, gazing at Toji's back. "Well…" she began as a playful smirk appeared on her face. "Looking past the fact that he's a stranger you took in just yesterday, he is quite the eye candy, much better looking than the last one for sure."
Aiko looked at her, scandalized. "Barb!"
"What?" Barb raised her hands innocently. "I wouldn't mind coming here everyday, if just to see that hot piece of ass."
Aiko shook her head in amusement, chuckling. Their conversation was intruded upon when Toji made his way toward them with a tray over his forearm, the coffee sitting atop it, fresh and ready for consumption.
As the man settled Barb's order on top of the table, he said. "One iced americano."
"Thank you very much," Barb said, to which she received a nod from Toji before turning to go back to his place behind the counter.
"It was nice to catch up, Barb. I'll leave you to it then!" Aiko said, bowing before quickly going to follow Toji.
Once both were behind the cashier, she congratulated him. "I knew you could do it," she smiled. "Your first customer of the day, and many more to come."
"You didn't have to defend me," his words came unexpectedly as his eyes never left the front door.
'He heard us?' she thought, as she then became worried. Quick to rectify any possible misunderstandings about the conversation, she said. "Barb's my friend, she means well, so I hope you're not offended. She's just looking out for me."
"And…" she added softly. "I know you're not like that anyway."
Toji remained silent. Aiko figured there was an unspoken thank you in the air, and smiled contently as they waited for the next customer.
/ - /
Aiko had felt good about the rest of the day after seeing Toji deal with the first batch of customers in the morning.
She was mistaken once afternoon began to roll around as the next few customers provided an escalating series of challenges, all of them entirely based on social nuance, which Toji seemed unequipped to handle. One by one they appeared to chip at Toji's patience, which was in of itself quite thin already.
There was the middle-aged woman who was a tad too chatty and friendly toward Toji. Aiko hadn't even thought to consider that a conversational customer might prove to be a struggle for her employee, who wasn't the greatest at pointless conversation.
She approached the counter, beaming. "Good morning! My, you're new! And so… strong-looking! Oh, but I can't decide today. What do you recommend, handsome? Something dark, or perhaps something with that lovely velvet foam you were making earlier?"
Toji stared at her, genuinely perplexed. Meanwhile, Aiko watched the ordeal with an anxious expression.
"I don't know," Toji replied, his voice a low, gravelly monotone. "Just pick one."
Mrs. Ishikawa's smile froze. She leaned in conspiratorially. "Oh, but you must have a favorite! You look like a man who appreciates the strength of the Dark Roast, perhaps a triple shot?"
"I like water," Toji stated, his eyebrows scrunching together in slowly wavering patience "If you can't decide on an order, get out. You're holding up the line."
Aiko winced, deciding to step in to help out. But, the woman had already beaten her to it, quickly pointing to the first item on the menu, paid in horrified silence, and retreated to the farthest corner table, where she watched him with the wide eyes of someone who had just encountered a strange, predatory species.
The next customer, a younger man in a casual printed hoodie, approached the counter. He examined the pastry case, then looked at the menu on the wall, and then back at the counter, a look of friendly innocence on his face.
"Excuse me," the man began, tapping the counter gently. "Do you guys have anything… savory? Like maybe a ham and cheese sandwich, or an egg wrap? I haven't had breakfast, and I really need something heavy, not just a croissant…unless, you guys have a burger or something."
'Oh no, he's one of those customers," Aiko began to panic, swearing that she could hear the cogs turning within Toji's head as he stared at the man in front of him blankly.
"Hey," Toji started more dryly than matter-of-factly. "You can read, right?"
The man stood, dumbfounded. "I… I-"
"Sorry about him," Aiko swiftly came to the rescue, interrupting before it could get any worse. "He's anti-social, and new. I believe what he meant to say was that we don't offer any of those here, but if you'd like I could point you to the direction of a really good brunch place that offers everything you were asking for."
Sheepishly, the man replied. "Ah, that would be great, thank you."
He wasn't that clueless, thankfully, as he uttered a quick apology before he backed away and exited the cafe.
Aiko sighed. "You should try sugarcoating your words next time, Fushiguro-san." she supposed he wouldn't do such a thing anytime soon, but it was worth the try.
Toji looked down at her, utterly confused. "What kind of idiot walks into a cafe asking for a burger." he grumbled.
"Yes well, idiots make up a big part of the customers that walk through that door everyday, and to deal with them so that they can have a good time, and that we get paid. That is something called customer service," Aiko explained with a smile, throwing her hands up. "You suggest an alternative! You say, 'I'm so sorry, we just focus on pastries, but there's a lovely little corner shop around the block that makes wonderful sandwiches!'"
"I'm not saying any of that."
"Just try and be nicer please."
"No promises," Toji replied with crossed arms.
Aiko sighed, with a small smile teasing her lips despite. It didn't get any easier after that, but the last straw came when a middle-aged man, who already wore a scowl upon entering, came face to face with Toji.
"A large black coffee," The customer said curtly, his sour mood apparent through the sharpness of his voice.
Toji paused. "A what?"
"Large black coffee," The customer mirrored Toji's waning patience. "Did you not hear me the first time?"
Ignoring the man's question, Toji powered through. "There's three sizes. Read. And pick one."
"I just told you the size."
Toji narrowed his eyes. "Do you see large among the choices?" He then pointed to each. "Venti, tall, grande–"
"Fushiguro-san," Aiko piped up with a courteous smile, much more accustomed to the current situation than Toji was. "I think he means venti, isn't that right, sir?"
However, it wasn't that easy to temper either of the individuals before her. "No, I mean a large." The customer insisted, not backing down at Toji's gaze.
"See, venti is 20," the man began, speaking with a condescending tone as if he was lecturing a child. "Large is large. In fact, tall is large. And, grande is Spanish for large. Venti is the only one that doesn't mean large. It's also the only one that's Italian."
"Congratulations!" Sarcasm dripping heavily. "You're stupid in three languages."
Aiko swore she could feel the murderous intent oozing off of Toji. So, to save both the man and her business, she stepped in.
"O..Okayyy," she said, raising her voice to get through to Toji, whilst grabbing his arm. Her employee stared back at her incredulously, as if to challenge her choice of action, but she didn't back down. "I believe it's time for my employee to take a lunch break."
Toji's lips parted, then closed again. A beat. Then, a sigh escapes his mouth instead of a retort. Slowly, but also grudgingly (she noticed) he walked away, giving Aiko the floor.
Aiko sighed in relief at the small victory, before soon refocusing her attention to the troubling customer with a practiced smile and veil of professionalism. "Apologies, so what was it you'll be having? A large black coffee, right?"
/ - /
The rhythmic clink of a metal spoon against porcelain was the only sound Toji could hear as he meticulously scrubbed the last of the hardened milk residue from the espresso machine's steam wand. The cafe was nearly empty. The morning's rush of regulars and demanding interactions had long since retreated into the evening, leaving behind the comforting scent of cooled coffee and clean counters.
Toji felt the familiar, heavy fatigue of a day spent in an unnatural posture—not fighting, but serving. He was looking forward to the simple, unexpected luxury of the bed in Aiko's home.
He dried his hands on a towel and glanced at the door. It was soon time to close, as the majority of the customers had already left with only a select few remaining, burning the evening oil. Meanwhile, Aiko was at the back cleaning as well, preparing to close shop soon enough.
Just as he'd thought that the day had been coming to an end, the bell above the door jangled softly, announcing one final customer.
The man who entered was, in a word, eccentric. Out of place.
He was middle-aged, of moderate height and slight build, yet he moved with a theatrical swagger. His short, gray hair was neatly parted, and a small mustache and goatee framed his mouth. His most notable feature was his grin: wide, confident, and punctuated by a visible gap where a front tooth should have been. His pink eyes were perpetually squinted, as if permanently amused by an unseen joke.
He wore a slightly rumpled dress blazer and pants, but the ensemble was undercut by a thick, golden, segmented tube-like necklace around his neck and a partially unbuttoned shirt.
In his life, Toji had come to know many morally-dubious individuals. Such was part of his job, where his clientele included the shadiest of individuals. So for that reason, he could certainly say that the man that had just entered was different from the previous ones. In a dangerous way.
The man scanned the empty cafe, his squinted eyes settling on Toji. He didn't seem surprised or intimidated by the towering figure behind the counter. Another oddity. Toji remained calm, not showing any hint of acting out of the norm, whilst remaining vigilant as the man neared.
"Ah, good evening," the man greeted, his voice a smooth, smoky baritone. He walked right up to the counter, tapping lightly with his fingers. "Late night. I'll take an iced, white mocha. Mmm, make that a grande."
Toji felt tension rise with every word that left the man's mouth. His senses told him that the man was out of the ordinary.
"Right," Toji acknowledged.
The man paid in cash. "Take a seat, and I'll serve you your coffee once it's ready," Toji said, receiving a nod from the man who settled into a table near the window, ignoring the subtle glances thrown his way from the remaining customers in the establishment.
Once he had the man's order, Toji delivered it to him, but lingered to see if the suspicious individual would do anything. The man took a long, thoughtful sip, letting the silence stretch for nearly a full minute.
Finally, the man raised his pink eyes, a grin stretching across his face.
"Fushiguro Toji, yes?"
"Who's asking?" Toji began running possibilities through his battle-hardened mind. His manner of retaliating if the man was to instigate a fight: the knife on the table, the chair for cover if he pulls out a gun. His muscles twitched, as if readying itself for a fight was the most typical thing to do, like a reflex. His eyes darted quickly around, trying to assess if there were others nearby. His mind also analyzed the swiftest escape routes if there would be too many or if cops were to intercept. He'd have to take Aiko with him as well if he was going to–
"You can call me Giran," he said, before soon raising both hands in surrender as he smiled. "I'm not here to cause trouble, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to kill me."
"I'd just like to borrow you for a quick minute."
Toji raised a brow ever so slightly. Observing him more, the man didn't seem to have any killing intent, allowing for more curiosity to arise in him. He was still cautious though as he took a seat from across the man named Giran, crossing his arms.
"What do you want?"
"You applied for a bodyguard position at the Yaoyorozy Corporation, is that right?" Getting no reply, Giran continued. "You had quite the performance in both the physical test, and the final combat test. Your physicality stats are quite extraordinary. Even amongst high-ranking heroes, I'd wager you could give them a run for their money. All that without a quirk, how fascinating."
Giran paused, he guessed to allow everything he said to be processed, but Toji didn't really need it. "Yet, they chose some inexperienced fellow with a third-rate quirk, just because, supposedly, you don't. What a shame."
He was neither surprised nor amused. "If you know everything already, then I'll ask one more time. What do you want?"
"I just believe that…" Giran smirked. "Well, a man of your talents? Isn't it a waste for a diamond in the rough such as you to be tossed aside, working in a place like this."
"So? What's it to you?" Toji shot him a bemused look as he propped up his cheek with his palm.
"What's it to me? It's part of my job to know about castaways, especially those with potential."
"So is making pointless chatter, apparently," Toji added cheekily, eliciting only further amusement from Giran.
"You could see me as a business angel of sorts. For people like you, especially," his lips curved anticipatingly. "You know, you're not a special case, Fushiguro-kun. Lots of poor bastards get fucked over by this big unfair shitpile we call the world. They're spat out, cus their talent doesn't fit into the neat little boxes that society draws. I don't agree with that. Everyone has value. And I believe so do you."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "See, I can make it so that your talents are put to use. You'd be surprised at the amount of people that would offer very generous compensations to have a man of your skills work for them. I can connect you to such people."
Giran took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "What I'm saying, Fushiguro-kun, is that I can get you a job. A better job. One that pays you exactly what you're worth. One that does not care about whether or not you have an extra joint in the pinky toe, but rather one that simply cares about results."
"So?" Giran leaned back. "What do you think?"
"I already have a job," Toji replied, without much thought or contemplation. He was done with that life. Narrowing his eyes dangerously at the man, he firmly added. "So no."
Giran tilted his head, his amused gaze swiftly sweeping over the counter and spotless floor before returning Toji's intense, unwavering stare. "I see," any further reply or words of enticement he had seemingly never came as Toji remained unmoved.
"I'm far from unreasonable, so I will respect your decision, of course," he held up his left hand, acknowledging the refusal. He didn't look offended, merely pragmatic. He shrugged easily, then chuckled at Toji's wary expense.
Whilst chuckling, Giran reached out for a napkin before pulling out a pen as he wrote something down on it. "That doesn't mean the offer's off the table though," he said, before pushing the folded napkin toward Toji. He wrote a phone number on the napkin with the flourish of a professional. "It's my number. If you change your mind, call me. Whenever. Wherever."
Toji doubted he would. Then Giran's expression changed, softening into something genuinely curious.
"Or," Giran continued. "If you just wanna grab a drink sometime. That doesn't sound so bad either."
"What?" Toji looked at him, confused.
"What? Don't like alcohol? I'll just get you something non-alcoholic then."
"No," Toji's brows closed tightly. "Why?
"Why not?" Giran replied casually. "You're a pretty interesting guy. You know, there's this other guy, I should introduce you to. He's got a few loose screws in the noggin', but I feel like you both oughta get along."
Toji felt the familiar, profound confusion that always accompanied Aiko's excessive kindness now returning with the suspicious stranger. The request was utterly non-transactional. Why?
"Why?" Toji repeated, blunt and suspicious.
Before Giran could reply, Aiko strode into the conversation, appearing in front of their table. Her curious and jolly eyes rested upon the man across Toji. "Oh my, Fushiguro-san, who is this? A friend?"
Giran answered for Toji, standing up to bow to Aiko respectfully. "Good evening, you must be the lovely Ms. Aiko," he smiled down at her, earning a cheerful giggle back. "I must say you have a very beautiful place here. I love it."
"Why thank you very much!"
"Truly it is," Giran nodded, smiling mischievously. "And yes, I am a friend of Fushiguro-kun. In fact, I was just–"
"Leaving," Toji finished. "He was just leaving."
He received varying looks from both. Aiko, because of his rudeness, undoubtedly. And Giran, because he appeared amused, not offering a retort. "Yes, I was just leaving," he agreed, taking a stand as he turned to Aiko. "Apologies, but I best get going."
"Ah no worries!" Aiko reassured, raising her hands. "Please do get home safely, and feel welcome to come back anytime."
Toji did not like that open invitation, but Giran clearly felt the opposite, flashing him a cheeky smirk.
"Of course, I'd love to." Giran then walked to the door, pushing it open. But, before stepping through it and out into the outside world, he left some parting words without looking back.
"It was a pleasure to see you, Fushiguro-kun."
Toji stared at the door closing as the bells sang of the man's exit from the cafe.
'Weird guy.'
Obviously, Aiko had no clue. "What a nice man," she commented.
"Yeah…sure."
"Anyways, come Fushiguro-kun! It's time to close up!"
"Coming."
"Oh and don't think you're off the hook either. Tell me all about your friend later!"
/ - /
As he assimilated himself back into society, Giran pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He brought it to his ears, waiting shortly before his call was picked up. Another man's voice at the other end began.
"So?"
"I was a bit skeptical at first."
"But?"
"But, you were right. Actually, you undersold him. He'd be a very lucrative investment. That man...is very dangerous."
Giran's clientele as a broker ranged from vigilantes to mob bosses. Suffice to say, his career placed him into close proximity with people from all walks of life. So he could tell from a glance- Hell, if not from a glance, he definitely could tell when he saw his eyes. He was planning on killing him. No, he was going to kill him if he hadn't done anything. His killing intent was…suffocating indeed.
He did not know much about him aside from what he'd been told. Moreover, he hadn't been able to find any records of him either, so his name may even be an alias of some sort. But, one thing was for certain in Giran's mind.
Fushiguro Toji was a killer. An experienced one at that.
"Yes, very dangerous. That man may even want him for that league of his once he sees him. That is, if he changes his mind, of course."
Only time would tell.
"We'll just have to wait and see."
/ - /
The past few days following his first day working at the cafe had been an exercise in endurance, redefined.
Days that were spent laboring behind the counter—making perfectly silent lattes, scrubbing hardened milk from chrome, and, most taxing of all, dealing with people day in and day out. He was accustomed to the sharp, decisive work of assassination, where his survival was tied to his ability to minimize interaction and maximize lethality. He was used to getting paid for killing people, not for patiently explaining to a bewildered customer why the 'House Blend' was not, in fact, an herbal tea. And here he was, doing just that.
The sheer volume of human noise, indecision, and mundane conversation was mentally exhausting. His body, trained for explosiveness, now ached with the subtle, deep fatigue of standing for long hours.
It wasn't so bad, though.
Toji thought to himself, stifling a heavy, weary yawn that cracked the serenity of the cafe. He had a job that, despite its requirements for patience and small talk, wasn't as utterly shitty as it had every right to be. And he even had a place to stay—Aiko had insisted, with a terrifying, non-negotiable kindness, that he remain at her place until he could afford his own. By insisting, she had casually, but firmly, threatened to fire him if he dared leave her humble abode for the unforgiving streets. So, much to his profound chagrin and cynical resignation, Toji was now also living temporarily with his boss, under the heavy, comforting blanket of her protection.
For all the jarring similarities this world shared with his original—the language, the architecture, the sheer existence of superhuman powers—there were just as many strange, unsettling oddities.
Like Aiko, with her relentless, unearned faith in his goodness.
And even that Giran guy.
The shady individual had left a deep impression, an oily residue of recognition that Toji couldn't simply wipe away. Of course, he wasn't seriously considering his offer; he was done with that life. But Giran's words had found a crack in his armor, particularly his detached, philosophical telling of value existing within everyone—even those discarded by society—and his oddly unconditional invitation for a drink. He was another unpredictable existence that genuinely confused him.
Toji sighed to himself, running a hand over the clean counter. He just wanted simplicity. He just hoped that he wouldn't encounter any more weird people. They messed with both his mentality and his attempt at a peaceful life. Aiko was a welcome, if dangerous, exception, but that wasn't to say that he'd welcome more weirdness in his life. Not when he was actively planning to live peacefully.
He had just allowed the silence to settle, soaking up the quiet promise of an uneventful morning, when the outer door was violently thrown open.
"Oi, Shotaaa, come on, this is why we're here, some coffee will wake you right up!" The voice was loud, female, and cut through the quiet like a rusty saw.
"Ugh." The second voice was a deep, gravelly groan of pure, concentrated exhaustion.
The bell sounded late at the newcomers' entrance due to the sheer velocity and disregard with which they burst through. A chaotic mix of bright green and profound black flashed as the two new customers' figures cleared the doorway for Toji's eyes to register.
He spoke too soon, didn't he?
Fuck his life.