The morning sun, usually a welcome guest in the grand, glass-walled dining room of the mansion, felt harsh and intrusive. It illuminated a scene of quiet, almost comical tension. Four figures were huddled around the massive, polished obsidian table, a spread of artisan pastries and steaming coffee untouched between them—save for one person.

  Yukari took a delicate, unbothered bite of a flaky croissant, its buttery aroma mingling with the faint, lingering scent of last night's valor. The pastry, nestled in a small basket bearing the elegant, unmistakable insignia of Guido’s Diner, was a silent testament to Raito’s newfound, and slightly terrifying, diplomatic immunity within Spica’s culinary world. Across from her, Raito himself nursed a cup of tea, his expression a mask of polite, neutral curiosity, while Serra Montblanc, the journalist, sat vibrating on the edge of her seat, her eyes wide, a pen and notepad clutched in her hands as if she were documenting a creature in its natural, and highly volatile, habitat.

  The fourth figure, however, was the source of the room's heavy, awkward silence. Fifi—or Lily, as they now knew—was a wreck. She was slumped in her ornate chair, her usually perfect blonde hair a deflated, tangled mess. The dark, angry bags under her eyes, a souvenir from her sleepless night, were stark against her pale skin. Her dramatic flair, the theatrical armor she wore as constantly as her newsboy cap, was gone, leaving behind a small, weary, and profoundly confused girl.

  “How long?” Her voice, when it finally came, was a small, raw, and utterly normal thing, completely stripped of its usual booming, dramatic flourishes. She stared at Yukari, her gaze a mixture of anguish and pure, unadulterated bewilderment.

  “How long what?” Yukari asked, her own voice a calm, almost breezy counterpoint as she took another bite of her croissant, deliberately brushing a few flakes from her lips.

  Fifi’s hands clenched into tight fists on the polished table. The question, so simple and so unbothered, seemed to be the final straw. A familiar, theatrical fire ignited in her weary eyes. She shot to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. “How long,” she began, her voice a low, rising tremor, “hath thou known that ’twas I?” As if summoned by the shift in her very being, a sudden, inexplicable cloud of thick, white smoke billowed up from beneath the table, obscuring her in a dramatic, lavender-scented fog. From within the cloud, a single, brilliant spotlight, seemingly from nowhere, illuminated her small, defiant form. “That ’twas I, Lily Pence!” she declared, her voice now a booming, operatic crescendo that echoed in the vast room. She struck a pose, one hand thrown to her chest, the other gesturing to the heavens. “Celebrity! Actress! Performer! The Jewel of the Sea Extraordinaire!”

  Cough… cough… Yukari waved a hand in front of her face, fanning away the last, lingering wisps of purple smoke. “Where did all this smoke even come from?” she grumbled, her voice muffled. She looked up at the dramatically-posed girl, her expression not one of shock or awe, but of a quiet, almost bored amusement. “And as for how long…” She paused, taking a final, deliberate sip of her tea. “I’ve known since you proudly started hinting at yourself back at the fountain. The one with your bronze statue in the middle of it.”

  The dramatic music that had swelled from unseen speakers died with a sudden, discordant scratch. The brilliant spotlight flickered and went out. From the shadows near the kitchen entrance, two figures in black stagehand attire, who had been dutifully operating a fog machine and a spotlight, exchanged a confused look and quietly retreated.

  Fifi’s triumphant, theatrical pose faltered. She slowly lowered her hand, her mouth falling slightly agape. “That… that long?” she stammered, her grand persona shattering like cheap glass, her voice reverting back to its small, normal, and utterly bewildered state. “Why… why didst thou not say anything?”

  “Because,” Yukari said, leaning back in her chair with a small, infuriatingly calm smile, “since you wanted us so badly to make the connections ourselves, I figured I’d wait.” Her silver eyes twinkled with a mischievous, almost diabolical light. “I wanted to know what your end goal was, Fifi or Lily, whatever you go by now.”

  “Lily, Fifi, whichever is fine for you,” Lily muttered, her voice a deflated thing as she slumped back into her chair, her brief burst of energy completely spent.

  “Well… Fifi, then,” Yukari said, her smile widening. She leaned forward, her voice full of a bright, teasing energy as she gleefully explained her counter-play. “Since you so clearly had this grand reveal planned, this moment where we were supposed to go, ‘Oh my Silas! Our chaotic little guide is actually the legendary Miss Lily Pence! How could we have ever been so blind?’” She mimicked a look of shocked, reverent awe, clasping her hands together in a perfect, theatrical imitation that made Raito choke on his tea. “I decided it was much more fun to just flip the script upside down.” She puffed her chest out, a small, triumphant gesture of victory. She had known all along. She had played the fool. And she had won.

  “Kugh…” Lily let out a low, guttural groan, her head falling forward to rest on the polished obsidian table with a soft thud . “Drats,” she moaned, her voice muffled by the wood. “Foiled by two… two scoundrels!” She clenched her fists, her knuckles white. “Fine play, Madam Yukari,” she conceded, lifting her head just enough to glare at her, her eyes narrowed with a newfound, grudging respect. “Fine play indeed.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, pulling herself upright, her spine straightening as the first sparks of her old, indomitable spirit returned. “But do remember,” she declared, her voice rising once more, regaining its theatrical edge, “this is not the end! The final act is not yet written! I shall have my revenge, mark my words!”

  “Bring it on,” Yukari replied instantly, her own smile never wavering, her silver eyes blazing with a matching, competitive fire. A silent, invisible challenge, crackling with a shared, chaotic energy, sparked between the two women.

  “So this is how Miss Lily usually is at home…” a small, quiet voice mused from the side. The sparks died instantly. Lily and Yukari both froze, their dramatic standoff completely derailed as they turned their heads in unison. Serra Montblanc, the journalist they had both completely forgotten was even in the room, was sitting on the edge of her seat, her gaze fixed on her notepad, her pen flying across the page as she diligently scribbled down notes, a look of pure, academic fascination on her face. “Intriguing… very intriguing…” she muttered to herself, completely oblivious to the two pairs of eyes now fixed on her.

  “Why are you here?!” Lily shrieked, her voice a high-pitched, horrified sound as she finally, truly, registered the journalist’s presence at her dining table, quietly eating a croissant that had almost certainly been meant for her.

  “Oh, I can explain that.” Raito, who had been quietly enjoying the show, suddenly raised his hand as if he were in a classroom. All eyes turned to him. “She looked lonely and cold waiting outside all the time, so I invited her in,” he explained, his voice full of a simple, guileless logic.

  “She is not a stray animal!” Lily’s voice cracked, a sound of pure, unadulterated disbelief. “She is my stalker! Thou canst not just let people in willy-nilly without mine consent!”

  “I am not a stalker!” Serra protested, finally looking up from her notes, her expression a mask of professional indignation. “I am Serra Montblanc, journalist extraordinaire! And I am here because you still owe me that exclusive interview, Miss Lily!”

  “I will get to that later!” Lily snapped, turning her head to glare at Serra. “And yes, thou art still a stalker!” She spun back, her gaze sweeping over the scene—the two chaotic runaways who had taken over her guest room, the nosy journalist now eating her breakfast, the crumbs of a Guido’s Diner croissant on her obsidian table. She sniffled, the earlier anger and theatricality dissolving into a quiet, profound despair. “Why is everyone here? My sanctuary… my beautiful, quiet sanctuary… it’s been invaded.”

  Her moment of self-pity was, as always, destined to be short-lived.

  Knock. A single, sharp rap on the grand front door.

  Knock, knock. Two more, louder this time.

  Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock! A frantic, percussive, and utterly relentless assault of knocking, a sound so loud and so insistent it seemed to shake the very walls of the mansion.

  Lily’s head snapped up, the despair in her eyes instantly replaced by a fresh, burning wave of pure, sleep-deprived fury.

  “What?!” she shrieked, her voice a raw, animalistic sound that was a world away from any stage performance. She stormed from the dining room, her fluffy rabbit-motif slippers flapping angrily against the marble floor as she marched towards the front door, ready to unleash her wrath upon whatever new fool had dared to disturb her morning.

  She ripped the heavy door open, her face a mask of pure, condensed rage, a scathing, theatrical tirade already formed on her lips, ready to obliterate whoever was on the other side. And then she froze.

  The words died in her throat. Her fury, so potent just a moment before, evaporated, replaced by a profound, almost comical wave of bewilderment.

  Her grand, sun-drenched courtyard was not empty. It was full. A massive, surging sea of white aprons, gleaming chef’s hats, and angry, determined faces filled every available inch of polished stone. It was an army of chefs, a veritable legion of Spica’s culinary elite, and they were all glaring at her.

  At their head, standing on her ornate, sculpted-hedge planter as if it were a podium, was a familiar, imposing figure. Mr. Guido, the rat Sacred, chef extraordinaire, his magnificent moustache waxed to a perfect, sharp point, his arms crossed over his pristine white uniform, his expression one of absolute, unyielding authority.

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  “Miss Lily!” he boomed, his voice a powerful, resonant thing that echoed across the courtyard, silencing the angry murmurs of the crowd behind him. “Perdon our morning intrusion!” His tone was polite, but his eyes held the cold, hard glint of a man on a mission. “But we know you have our Saint in captivity!”

  A collective, supportive roar erupted from the sea of chefs behind him. “Yeah!” “Let him go!” “We need him!”

  Guido raised a hand, silencing them instantly. His gaze, a laser beam of pure, fanatical devotion, locked onto Lily. “Please,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, “release him unto us. We need him. All of us need him.”

  Lily just stared, her mind a complete and utter blank, the sheer, overwhelming absurdity of the situation short-circuiting her every thought. An army of angry chefs had laid siege to her mansion. At ten in the morning. Demanding the release of a “saint.”

  She slammed the door shut, the heavy wood muffling the rising chant of “Free the Saint! Free the Saint!” that had just started up outside. The lock clicked, a sound of fragile, temporary reprieve. She leaned her back against the door, her entire body trembling, not with fear, but with a rage so profound, so absolute, that it was almost silent.

  She turned, her movements slow, stiff, almost robotic. Her gaze, a storm of pure, unadulterated fury, swept the living room and landed on the one person who could possibly be the cause of this new, insane, and utterly humiliating spectacle.

  “You…” she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. She pointed a single, trembling finger at Raito, who was still standing by the dining table, a half-eaten croissant frozen in his hand, his face a mask of pure, innocent confusion. “What did you do?”

  Raito shivered, a cold, instinctive dread washing over him. “I… I just bought some bread from his place this morning, that’s all,” he stammered, his voice a high-pitched, panicked squeak. “And… and maybe I helped him clean his diner a little bit before the breakfast opening?” He finished with a weak, awkward laugh, a desperate attempt at levity that fell flat in the face of her terrifying, silent rage.

  Lily’s hand, still pointing at him, began to shake. Her eye twitched. She looked from the terrified, clueless boy, to the still-reverberating door, to the muffled, but growing, chant of “Free the Saint!” from her own front yard.

  She, Lily Pence, the Jewel of the Sea, the most famous, most adored, most celebrated figure in all of Spica, was being upstaged. On her own property. By an ex-janitor.

  She fell to her knees. Her proud, theatrical posture crumpled, her body slumping to the polished marble floor in a heap of pure, unadulterated defeat. She looked up at the ornate, gilded ceiling of her own magnificent home, a single, perfect tear of humiliation tracing a path down her pale cheek.

  She clenched her fist, raising it to the sky in a final, desperate, and utterly futile gesture of defiance, not against the chefs, not against the runaways, but against the true architect of her misery.

  “Curse you, Green One!” she shrieked, her voice a raw, broken sound of pure, tragic despair.

  Moments later, the four of them were a blur of motion, sprinting through a quiet, sun-dappled alleyway far from the culinary siege.

  “Huff… huff…”

  They collapsed against a cool, shadowed brick wall, their chests heaving, their breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The distant, angry shouts of “Free the Saint!” were a faint, fading echo behind them.

  “Did… did we lose them?” Yukari panted, her voice a strained whisper as she risked a quick peek back around the corner. The alley was empty. The main thoroughfare just beyond it was filled with the usual, cheerful bustle of Spican life, the crowd completely oblivious to the small, apron-clad army that was, at that very moment, laying siege to a celebrity’s mansion.

  “I think so,” Raito replied, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

  “They threw their knife at us… they threw their knife at us…” Serra, who was slumped on the ground beside them, muttered, her voice a low, traumatized thing. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her camera, her green eyes wide with a lingering, horrified disbelief.

  “I’m pretty sure those knives were meant for Yukari,” Raito said, his voice a gentle, reassuring thing as he patted the shell-shocked journalist on the shoulder. “Not us. You know, because of the… kitchen incident.”

  “This was supposed to be my day off!” Lily suddenly wailed, her voice a high-pitched, tragic sound that was completely devoid of its usual theatrical flair. She slid down the brick wall, her small frame a crumpled heap of pure, unadulterated misery. “My day of peace before the Grand Play! Why do I have to get chased by chefs? Chefs! Of all people! What happened to the city I love?!” She sniffled, a small, pathetic sound.

  “Has this place always been like this?” Yukari asked, her voice a low murmur of genuine, almost academic curiosity as she looked from the sobbing celebrity to the traumatized journalist and back to Raito.

  “Not since you two came here!” Lily shouted, her head snapping up, her eyes blazing with a fresh, sleep-deprived, and utterly misplaced fury. “I know I shouldn’t have been curious enough to grant that old man his favor! This is all his fault!” she grumbled, her voice dropping to a low, bitter mutter.

  The words, spoken in a fit of pure, chaotic frustration, hung in the air for a moment. But to Raito, they were a sudden, illuminating flash of clarity. “So,” he began, his voice a slow, dawning realization, “Grandpa Sun Yoon asked you for a favor? Probably about… giving us a place to stay?” He looked at her, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a satisfying, logical snap. “Make sense.”

  Lily froze. Her furious tirade died in her throat. Her head slowly turned towards Raito, her expression a mask of pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Wait…” she stammered, her mind racing, “how did you make that connection? It is correct, but… how?”

  “Raito is always weirdly sharp when it comes to godly stuff,” Yukari commented with a casual shrug, as if this were a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence. “You just get used to it.”

  The answer, so simple and so utterly insane, only seemed to confuse Lily more. She stared at Raito, her mind grappling with a new, impossible, and frankly terrifying variable. “So you know?” she whispered, leaning in, her voice a conspiratorial, disbelieving hiss.

  Raito just nodded again, a calm, almost knowing smile on his face. “Well,” he explained, “since you have a connection with Grandpa, and he’s still back in Hanyuun, yet he asked a favor for you all the way over here… I just guessed.”

  Lily stared at him for a long, silent moment, her brain threatening to short-circuit. The boy was an idiot. A clueless, hopeless, bumbling idiot who couldn’t even grasp the most basic concepts of polite society. And yet, he had just, with a single, casual guess, connected a series of dots that should have been impossible to connect. “What is wrong with you?” she finally shrieked, her voice a high-pitched, frustrated sound that was a world away from her on-stage persona. This guest, this… package… was even more baffling than she had ever imagined.

  “There they are!” A voice, sharp and triumphant, echoed from the mouth of the alley. A lone chef, his white apron stained with what looked suspiciously like tomato sauce, stood silhouetted against the bright sunlight, a ladle held aloft like a battle standard.

  “Gulp.” Serra’s head snapped up, the color draining from her face as she scrambled to her feet. “Run!” she shrieked, her earlier journalistic trauma completely overshadowed by a new, more immediate, and very real threat.

  And with that, the four of them were off again, a chaotic, mismatched, and utterly terrified blur of motion disappearing deeper into the labyrinthine shadows of Azul Spira.

  The city, which had felt so vast and full of promise just an hour ago, had now become a hunting ground. They ran, a strange, four-person train of pure, unadulterated panic, their footsteps echoing in the narrow, winding alleyways. They dodged past surprised locals, leaped over decorative canal bridges, and ducked behind overflowing flower carts, but the sound of the hunt never seemed to fade. The "Chef Cult," as Raito had mentally dubbed them, was relentless. Their local knowledge of the city’s backstreets was far superior, their fanatical devotion to their "Saint" a terrifying, unwavering force. Every time the group thought they had found a moment of respite, a new, angry shout of “There they are!” would erupt, sending them scrambling once more.

  “I can’t… huff… run anymore,” Serra panted, finally slumping to a stop, her back hitting the cool, damp wall of yet another identical alleyway. She slid to the cobblestones, her camera bumping uselessly against her hip, her face pale and slick with a sweat that had nothing to do with journalistic fervor.

  “This is your fault!” Lily snapped, rounding on Raito, her own exhaustion manifesting as a sharp, pointed finger jabbing at his chest. Her theatrical flair was gone, replaced by the raw, desperate frustration of a celebrity who was being chased through her own city by a mob of angry cooks. “Find us a place! A place where we can finally have some peace and quiet! Now!”

  “Me?!” Raito yelped, stumbling back a step from the sheer force of her fury. He looked around the empty, unfamiliar alley, his mind a frantic, blank slate. “I guess, you are right. But how am I supposed to…” His voice trailed off.

  Yukari, who had been leaning against the opposite wall, her own chest heaving, looked up. A flicker of hope cut through her own weary exasperation. “You think that place would be good enough?” she asked, her voice a low, cautious thing.

  “Ah, that place…” Raito’s earlier panic settled, replaced by a new, more complex wave of hesitation. He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair. “But… that guy is there,” he finished, his voice a mumble of deep, conflicted reluctance.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Yukari stated, her voice flat and final. She pushed herself off the wall, her expression grim. “Those chefs… they’re trying to make sushi out of me.” The memory of the knives, thrown not with murderous intent, but with the casual, almost bored precision of a chef practicing his filleting skills, sent a fresh, cold shiver down her spine. “Fine,” Raito relented, his own fear of the Chef Cult momentarily overriding his suspicion of the enigmatic florist. He let out a long, slow sigh, a sound of pure, unadulterated defeat. “Let’s go.” He gestured, his shoulders slumped, and began to lead the small, weary group in a new direction.

  After another few minutes of nervous, hurried walking, they finally arrived. The quiet, residential street was a world away from the chaos of the marketplace and the imposing grandeur of Lily’s cliffside mansion. And there, nestled between the familiar shapes of the tailor’s shop and the bookstore, was their destination. The ‘Café Neon’ sign, its gentle, welcoming glow now unlit in the bright afternoon sun, hung over the doorway, a silent promise of sanctuary.

  “We’re here,” Raito announced, his voice a low, uncertain thing. “They serve a pretty good café au lait,” he added, the words a weak, almost automatic attempt at normalcy.

  “We will, hopefully, be fine here,” Yukari continued, her own voice quiet as she unconsciously moved a half-step closer to Raito.

  “This kind of… quaint… establishment is not usually my thing,” Lily commented, her gaze sweeping over the simple, unadLorned fa?ade with a flicker of aristocratic disdain. But then, a distant, angry shout of “Free the Saint!” echoed from a few streets over. She shivered. “But,” she conceded, her voice a small, defeated thing, “considering the situation… very well.”

  The four of them moved towards the entrance, a small, strange, and utterly exhausted procession. Raito reached out, his hand hovering over the door handle.

  And then they heard it.

  A sound from within, sharp, violent, and utterly out of place. The unmistakable, shattering crash of glass and porcelain, followed by a woman’s voice, high and sharp with a desperate, furious anger.

  “Get out! Why are you still here?!”

  “Could it be Mary?” Yukari’s voice was a sharp, worried whisper, her earlier weariness forgotten in a flash of concern.

  “We’d better look,” Raito replied, his own hand dropping from the handle, his gaze hardening with a protective, grim resolve.

  Behind them, Lily’s brow furrowed. “Mary…?” she mused, her voice a low, thoughtful thing. “Hey, stalker,” she snapped, turning to Serra, “why does that name sound so familiar?”

  “For the last time, Miss Lily, I am not a stalker!” Serra protested, her journalistic instincts momentarily overriding her exhaustion. “But you’re right, that name… it does sound familiar.” She fumbled for her notebook, her fingers flying through the pages, her eyes scanning her own frantic, scribbled notes. “Let me see… Mary, Mary… ah! Here it is!” Her voice was a triumphant, excited whisper as she began skimming through her notes, her attention now fully captured by the page.