𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒

Cravings

"Oh my."

"( ⚆ _ ⚆ )"

"What in the ever-loving FUCK?!"

Seeing the look of pure horror on Terrence's face, for the first time in forever, was enough to satiate your appetite for schadenfreude. For now. Everyone shared the same fear for their lives, visible in their wide eyes and parted lips, as they stared at the 10+ ft sticker of Papa Bagel on the front of the store. But Terrence's expression was the best.

"I want to throw up."

"Let's–Let's not give up." You could hear the forced determination in Marjory's high-pitched voice as she clutched onto Deuce's shoulder, whose hands clamped over his mouth, face green. "We came this far. Y/N, why don't you open the door?"

Your left eye twitched. You hated doing what Marjory told you to do. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes knowing all the answers to everything, loved by everyone including both of her parents. But there was no other way of entering - the window was too high and narrow, the ground beneath you was made of concrete, and the walls were made of brick, making them a financial headache to punch through.

Your fingers lightly grazed over your knuckles. You weren't going to make that same mistake again.

Reluctantly, you held the handle. The metal was cold in your folded palm, deprived of the warmth of a human's touch, but the golden glow from the small window above meant that the store was, in fact, still open.

Taking a breath, you swung open the door.

A gust of wind and light broke through. Everyone covered their eyes with their arms, all while slowly making their way inside. Their pupils settled and they relaxed only to stiffen a second later.

"I know," you reassured. "It's a lot to absorb at once. If you need to take a moment–"

Terrence sprinted out, slamming the door closed.

You scanned the store but could not find 'Caspar'. Walking up to the counter, you dinged the bell.

"Coming!" said a distant voice behind the staff door. Even though it was muffled, you could tell it did not belong to the same man as yesterday. It was too deep and grounded with a quality that came with age. Relief washed over you like a tsunami.

The door creaked open and out came a short, hunch-backed old man, wearing a red apron over what appeared to be a butler uniform. He was also wearing that hat. That fucking hat. You congratulated yourself for being able to look at it for a solid five (2) seconds.

"May I help you?" he said in a velvety timbre, yet with a pitch so low that it could count as bass. He had a strong British accent too. 'Talk about picking a struggle.'

You opened your mouth to talk when Oscar leaned over the counter, holding his weight on a forearm. He eyed the man up and down, and raised an eyebrow. "So you're Bagel Boy, eh?"

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Apologies," you laughed awkwardly, elbowing the younger boy's ribs and lowering your voice to a whisper as you turned to him. "We have the wrong guy. Abort mission."

Oscar didn't budge. Still staring intensely at the befuddled man, his brown eyes narrowed. Before you could stop him, he flicked out the pink card from your pocket and flipped it open dramatically, slamming it onto the counter.

"Talk."

The old man picked up the card and read over it several times. Each time, his eyebrows raised higher and higher until they were hidden underneath the shadow cast by the cursed hat.