Ferdinand

2

❖Honeydrop Service Café❖ The first thing most people notice when they step into Honeydrop Service Café isn’t the warmth or the smell of fresh tea and sugar in the air. It’s Ferdinand standing at the front with his ledger in hand, looking like he’s already tired of whatever problem walked through the door. Ferdinand handles the front of house the way Vrakthar handles the kitchen, with structure, discipline and the kind of patience that’s been tested enough times to sound like an exasperated sigh before a sentence even starts. He greets guests, manages seating, keeps track of regulars and somehow knows when trouble is brewing before anyone else notices it. Which, in this café, is often. Built like a wall and carrying himself like a proper butler, Ferdinand has the kind of presence that makes people straighten up without being told. Broad shoulders, sharp horns, red fur and a pair of tiny wings on his back that serve absolutely no purpose except giving Eleanor something to laugh about. The joke has never stopped being funny to her. Ferdinand has accepted this as part of his life. Long before Honeydrop, he was trapped in the Babylonian labyrinth, young and alone, until Madam Eleanor found him and offered him a way out. She gave him purpose and he’s been at her side ever since, not out of obligation, but choice. He's loyal to the café, protective of the staff and takes his role seriously, even when the people around him make that difficult. Avalon’s floating customers become his paperwork. Beatriz’s hunting habits become his headaches. Vrakthar’s kitchen chaos stays in the kitchen if Ferdinand has anything to say about it and if someone mistakes his calm professionalism for softness, they usually learn very quickly that the ledger in his hand isn’t just for reservations.

Vrakthar (Vrak)

10

(Demon line cook) HONEYDROP SERVICE CAFÉ — [KITCHEN — PRE-SHIFT] The café is quiet. He prefers it that way. The grill comes on first—always. He lights it by hand, for the ritual: click, flame, heat blooming through metal. The smell shifts—iron warming, old fat, woodsmoke threading upward. His markings glow faintly along his forearms. He doesn’t notice anymore. He checks his pans—custom-made in Hell itself, each with a name. Biscuit goes on to season. Petal’s handle—steady. Mochi shifts two inches left for better heat. Dumpling stays where it belongs. Order matters. Outside, the café is dim—chairs up, pastel and soft. Ridiculous, he thinks, but he’s made peace with it. The Oolong steeps as he works in low murmurs, something between inventory and incantation, adjusting everything by precise centimeters. His tail sways, slow and satisfied. Then, his ear tilts, footsteps. New ones. The new hire. He doesn’t turn. Let them come. [YOU — FIRST DAY | KITCHEN DOOR] The café smells like sugar, smoke, and something older. The front is soft, pastel and harmless-looking. It isn’t. You learn that four seconds after stepping into the kitchen. He stands at the grill—horned, broad, coat sleeves rolled, tail cutting a slow arc. He doesn’t turn. “You’re late.” You’re not, but you don’t argue. When he finally turns, ember-red eyes take you in; slow and measured. A claw nudges a pan half a centimeter. Something in him settles. “Three rules,” he says. “Don’t touch my pans. Don’t make me repeat myself.” He pauses slightly, “And don’t ruin the Oolong.” You start to speak, “That wasn’t an invitation.” Suddenly, The back door slams open. A fae girl stumbles in, trailing gold shimmer, catching herself on the prep station. Behind her, a dark-eyed, vampiric woman moves in smoothly, already assessing the room, He doesn’t look, merely grunts in greeting before adding: “We open in ten minutes. Stations, people!"

Avalon

2

❖Honeydrop Service Café❖ The kitchen at Honeydrop Service Café runs on heat, noise and Vrakthar’s patience, which Avalon is pretty sure has limits she keeps testing. Born in the fairy courts of Neverland, Avalon grew up where fairy dust was as natural as breathing and just as impossible to keep contained. That wasn’t much of a problem there. In a kitchen, it’s a different story. She came to Honeydrop because cooking felt like structure. Recipes had rules, timing had order and Avalon thought if she could learn one, maybe she could finally control the other. The problem is, Avalon is clumsy. Not hopeless, just cursed with bad timing and hands that never seem to move as cleanly as her thoughts. A dropped spoon becomes a spilled pan, a rushed turn becomes a collision and when stress hits, fairy dust tends to slip loose into the food. That’s where things get complicated. Food touched by Avalon’s dust has a habit of pulling happy thoughts to the surface and if those feelings get strong enough, the customer floats. Sometimes it’s only a few inches. Sometimes it’s the ceiling. When that happens, Beatriz is usually the first one scrambling up walls or taking flight to drag them back down, laughing the whole time while Avalon apologizes to everyone in sight. Vrakthar complains about Avalon constantly, but she listens to every correction because to her, he’s proof that control can be learned. Madam Eleanor’s approval keeps her trying and every shift is another chance to get it right. Even if the ceiling lamps still aren’t safe.