I'm starving.
Like, stomach-eating-itself, knees-shaky, see-stars kind of starving.
The scent hit me the moment I turned the corner—crispy batter, sizzling octopus, and that sweet tang of sauce wafting from a tiny takoyaki stand tucked into the shadow of a rusted lamppost. My mouth was already watering as I pushed open the noren curtain.
But… something was off.
The place was completely empty.
No voices.
No clatter of utensils.
Just the sound of the sizzling grill—and someone slumped over the counter, snoring.
"Uhhh... hello?"
There he was. A middle-aged guy with a thick Italian-looking mustache, wearing a red cap and greasy apron. He looked like a discount Super Mario who had rage-quit the Mushroom Kingdom and ended up here.
And the worst part?
His shop was still open.
Like—completely unattended, doors wide open, cash register exposed. What kind of maniac runs a food stall and just knocks out mid-shift?! This had "rob me" energy written all over it.
"Oi! Wake up!"
I tapped the counter. Nothing.
I knocked louder. Still nothing.
Then I did the only logical thing left:
I slammed both palms on the ordering table and yelled, "WAKEY-WAKEY TAKOYAKI MAN!"
He launched from his seat with a shriek, did a full 180 midair, and crash-landed behind the counter with a groan.
"Nice one, me," I mumbled, trying not to laugh.
But then I noticed his expression.
His wide, bloodshot eyes were staring right at me, like I'd just shown him something forbidden. I blinked, confused… then looked down—
Oh no.
My shoulder strap had slipped. Not just a little. Half my freaking nipple was out.
I yelped, yanked my top back up, turned beet red, and stammered the fastest apology in recorded history.
"A-Ah! Sorry, sorry!! That was not part of the menu!"
He was red too—like, tomato-paste red—and immediately started bowing while waving his hands like he was trying to swat a ghost.
"I-it's fine! It's fine! I was the one asleep! I'm sorry! Please don't report me!"
Turns out he's not just the chef—he owns the whole stand. A one-man takoyaki army. After we both recovered from the mutual embarrassment, he fired up the grill, took my order, and got to work without another word.
The awkward silence was only broken by the crackle of batter meeting hot iron.
But even then, I couldn't shake the weird feeling in my gut.
Maybe it wasn't just hunger...
Maybe something bigger was cooking behind the scenes.
But hey—at least I'll finally get my takoyaki