Traffic in District-9 crawled like a sluggish river, thick with honking cars and restless commuters. Amid the sea of vehicles, a bright red supercar stood out like a single drop of blood in still water.

  "Young Master, are you sure you want to stay on the main road? We can reach the manor in a few minutes if we take the aerial road," a female voice spoke from the driver's seat.

  Inside the car, the cabin was silent, insulated from the cacophony of honking horns and revving engines outside. Every inch of the interior was adorned with the finest materials—polished ebony trim, plush leather seats, and the faint scent of imported fragrances.

  A small boy sat in the passenger seat, his legs too short to reach the floor. He leaned against the door, watching the world outside with his amber eyes.

  "This is my first time here, so I want to take a proper look around," he murmured, his eyes appearing to glow in the ambient light. "Though, this traffic is starting to annoy me."

  The boy, with his fair skin and golden locks, dressed in a crisp white shirt and suspenders, looked so delicate and pristine that he could easily be mistaken for a finely crafted porcelain doll.

  "When will Big Brother arrive?" The child asked, glancing at the driver—a woman in her thirties, her hair neatly tied in a bun.

  "The young master will arrive at the testing venue once it’s announced," she replied.

  Outside, a bicycle swerved dangerously close to the car, nearly scraping against its side.

  A black-haired boy on the bike snapped his head toward the vehicle, his face briefly flashing with surprise. But the tinted glass reflected his own image back at him, revealing nothing of the passenger inside.

  The young master watched with faint amusement as the boy weaved through traffic and disappeared into the sea of movement.

  ********

  Boure's Coffee—Since 1933.

  Is this the place?

  I lock my bicycle to a nearby streetlight and take a good look at the building in front of me.

  The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee hits me, almost giving me a caffeine boost without a single sip.

  This quaint café stands out from the usual shops in District-9, basking in the morning sun. No holographic displays, no automated sales bots—just a simple, old-fashioned storefront that looks like it belongs outside the district. I weave through the crowded sidewalk, occasionally bumping into people before stepping inside.

  The place is moderately crowded—not too many people, not too few. I make my way to the counter, where a cute girl in an apron is using a laptop. She notices me and quickly puts it away.

  "Hello, welcome to Boure's! What can I get you?" She asks with a bright smile.

  A job would be nice.

  "Ah, yeah. Actually, I saw a job posting online yesterday," I say, avoiding direct eye contact.

  The post only mentioned 20 dollars an hour—nothing about the position.

  "Oh, you're here for the job? Wait a sec!" she chirps before disappearing through a door behind the counter.

  Man, is this where I'll lose my virginity?

  She’s kinda flat, but damn, she’s cute. Gotta play it cool.

  While I’m lost in thought, the door swings open, and she returns.

  "My dad's back there. You can talk to him about the details," she says, holding the counter door open for me.

  I nod, step behind the counter, and push through the wooden door.

  Immediately, an overpowering wave of coffee fumes slams into me, nearly knocking me out.

  I blink through the haze, taking in the bizarre scene. Rows of lab equipment—pipettes, petri dishes, volumetric flasks, Bunsen burners, you name it—are meticulously arranged on granite counters. Fumes rise ominously from boiling flasks, and arrays of coffee beans in vibrant hues sit in various beakers.

  The warm, cozy café outside feels like a distant memory.

  I see a man wearing a lab coat with his back towards me writing something down in his tablet.

  "Ummm, excuse me?" I try to get his attention.

  The man places his tablet on the granite counter and turns around.

  Sharp gray eyes pierce through me. His mustache, clearly dyed to match his black hair, twitches slightly. His aquiline nose, sharp like an eagle’s beak, remains unfazed by the foul stench of the room. Deep wrinkles crease his already wrinkled face as his gaze hardens at the sight of me.

  "Sathel."

  "P-Professor?" I stammer, completely thrown off.

  It’s Bach.

  What the hell is this psycho doing here?

  "Are you the new employee?" he asks curtly.

  "Ye—No. I mean, not yet. I saw the job posting online, but there was no information about the position. Since it’s a café, I assumed it was for a waiter or a barista," I reply.

  He ignores me and disappears behind one of the many shelves.

  What is this guy doing here?

  Did he get diagnosed with lung cancer and now wants to build a coffee empire before his inevitable demise?

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Am I about to be his sidekick and cook coffee with him? Is his coffee 99.1% pure?

  Before I can spiral any further, Bach returns, holding an apron—the same one the girl outside was wearing.

  "Wear this. One to five p.m., Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. You’ll help out around the store—waiting tables, cleaning, assisting Kathy if she needs anything," he says, handing me the apron.

  So, Kathy’s her name.

  How the hell did a cute girl like that come from a monster like this?

  "Uh... what about my classes? I’m not available on Tuesdays," I say.

  "I know your timetable. You’re free on these days," he replies immediately, as if expecting the question.

  Did he change the work schedule after seeing me?

  I nod and take the apron.

  "Then I'll see you tomorrow," I say, turning to leave.

  "Where are you going?" he asks.

  "Home?" I say, puzzled.

  "Since you're here already, you might as well start today," he says, his voice carrying a hint of sadism.

  "It's Sunday. Will I get paid?" I ask.

  "No. Now don’t interrupt me; I’m busy," he says, waving me away.

  Without another word, Bach turns back to whatever the hell he was doing before I walked in.

  You crazy bastard, this is unpaid labor!

  This sadistic fuck will not hire me if I skip today... Goddammit, I will have my revenge one day.

  Not wanting to stay in this hazy room any longer, I wear the apron and make a swift exit.

  I'm greeted by the cozy warmth of the café, completely oblivious to the mad experiments happening just beyond that wooden door.

  "So, welcome to the crew! That suits you," Kathy says, eyeing my apron with a satisfied nod.

  "Thanks," I reply. "So… what am I supposed to do now?"

  "Well, could you take these to the customers over there?" She hands me a tray with several cups of coffee while pointing to a table.

  I glance down at the tray, then back at her. "I have no idea which coffee belongs to whom."

  "Don't worry," she says with a grin. "They're regulars. They’ll know which one’s theirs."

  I carry the tray to the table near the tall glass window. I see a couple talking to each other, waiting for their coffee.

  "Here's your coffee," I say as I serve them their cups.

  "Thanks. Oh! You're new here, huh?" the man asks, eyeing me curiously.

  "Yeah," I reply.

  "What happened to Tom? Is he sick?"

  "Who?" My eyebrows furrow.

  "You know, your co-worker. The waiter," he says.

  "Ah… I probably haven’t met him yet," I admit.

  "Oh! No worries, I was just curious. Have a good day!" he says, turning back to who I think is his girlfriend.

  "You too," I reply before heading back to the counter.

  I linger near the counter, standing there awkwardly—probably looking more like a bodyguard than a waiter.

  Kathy sits behind the counter, nose buried in her laptop.

  This is kinda awkward.

  I scan the café, looking for something to do, but everyone seems content, quietly enjoying their drinks.

  Kathy suddenly glances up. "So, what’s your name?"

  "Kevin. What about you?" I ask, even though I already know.

  "I'm Kathy. So, Kevin, are you a student?"

  "Uh… yeah," I reply. "What about you?"

  "I just graduated from Ramsey College last month. Where do you study?"

  Wait—she went to the same college as me?

  "Oh, I’m currently studying there too," I say.

  Her eyes light up. "Oh, really? What major?"

  "Electrical Engineering," I answer.

  "Oh? Then you must know my dad," she says.

  Unfortunately, I do.

  "Ah, Professor Bach. Yeah. He’s… a great teacher," I lie through my teeth.

  "Oh, really? I never saw him much since I was in the General Sciences Block. I majored in Biology," she explains.

  "Hmmm." I nod.

  Silence again. Was that a bad reply? What should I say now?

  As if saving me, just then, a customer finishes his drink and leaves.

  "Can you grab that cup and wipe down the table?" Kathy asks, handing me a small towel.

  I nod and get to work, clearing the table and bringing back the cup.

  "Just give it a quick rinse in the sink, then put it in the dishwasher," she says.

  I quickly rinse the cup and place it in the rack.

  "Should I start it?" I ask.

  "No, wait until we have more dishes. It’s better to run it all at once."

  I nod and return to my station—resuming my silent, awkward guard duty.

  ********

  The café is quite empty, with only a few customers lingering. Probably because it’s lunchtime. This place only serves coffee, so that makes sense.

  The wooden door behind the counter creaks open, and a monster emerges.

  "Kathy, go have lunch. I'll take over," he says to his daughter.

  Looking at him now, you’d think he was a normal human being, capable of empathy and goodwill. But the stark contrast between this version of him and his true self only makes him more terrifying.

  "Okay, Dad! What about Kevin?" Kathy glances at me.

  "I didn’t bring my lunchbox," I admit.

  "Me neither. Let’s grab something from the restaurant nearby," she suggests.

  Naturally, I look at the Devil for permission.

  "Do you even need to eat?" he asks, his face unreadable.

  "Dad, stop joking! We’ll be back in an hour," Kathy laughs as she removes her apron.

  He wasn’t joking. That was a serious question.

  Of course, I have to eat, you motherfucker! Do I look like a robot?!

  "Let’s go, Kevin!" Kathy calls, already heading for the door.

  Don’t leave me alone with this demon, Kathy!

  "Please excuse me, Professor," I say hastily, stripping off my apron and escaping through the door so fast you’d think I just teleported.

  Outside, the sidewalk is as crowded as ever, people minding their own business. I trail behind Kathy as she leads me to a restaurant a few minutes away. It’s nothing special—standard robotic waiters, efficient but soulless.

  We find a table for two in the crowded building and sit across from each other. As soon as we do, the tabletop glows slightly, and a digital menu flickers into existence. I skim through the options, eventually tapping on the chicken ramen before pressing OK. Looking up, I see that Kathy has also finished selecting her meal.

  This is my first time having a meal alone with a girl.

  Wait… does this count as a date?

  Damn, what should I say? Do I act like a bad boy? Or play it cool and mysterious?

  "So, do you like the café?" Kathy asks, breaking the silence.

  "Yeah," I reply.

  An awkward pause follows.

  Was that too short? Should I have said more?

  "Thanks. My great-grandfather opened this shop," she continues, filling the gap. "It’s been around since before the tech boom in District-9. Actually, before this place was even called District-9. Of course, we’ve had to renovate a few times."

  "Ohhh, that’s pretty cool," I say, genuinely impressed.

  It’s surprising that a place like that has managed to survive the rapid wave of automation.

  "But why aren’t there any robots? I mean, don’t get me wrong—if there were, I’d probably still be searching for a job—but that’s exactly why I’m curious. With bots, you wouldn’t have to pay employees. Sure, the initial cost is high, but long-term, it seems pretty viable," I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  Kathy smiles. "That was my grandfather’s decision—my mom’s dad. The tech revolution started around the time he took over the shop. He always said no robot could recreate the art of making coffee, because it’s more than just cooking. He believed that the effort itself was what made it special," she explains.

  I nod, sort of understanding the sentiment.

  "Besides, not many people visit cafés like ours, especially in District-9. Buying robots just for a handful of customers wouldn’t be worth it," she adds with a wry smile.

  That’s fair.

  As we talk, a sleek cylindrical robot hums toward our table, balancing our meals on a tray. It stops beside us, and with a soft whir, its head rises, revealing neatly stacked trays inside—other pending orders waiting their turn. A robotic arm extends, carefully detaching our tray and setting it down before seamlessly shifting the next tray into place. Now headless, the robot pivots and glides off to its next destination.

  I glance down at my chicken ramen, most likely made—at least in part—by machines.

  Then I glance at Kathy, her soft, pink lips pursed as she gently blows on her rice bowl to cool it. A stray lock of her silky black hair falls over her cheek, and she tucks it behind her ear with a delicate motion, her dark eyes focused on the steam rising from her meal.

  Why do I feel weird?

  Oh, no.

  Is this love?

  Desperate for a distraction, I blurt out, "Then why hire anyone at all? In your own words, there aren’t that many customers—so why bother with a waiter?"

  "Well, that’s my dad’s decision. I’m working remotely, and he doesn’t want me to get too distracted from my job," she says, taking a bite of her curry rice.

  "I see," I reply before slurping on my ramen as dignified as possible.

  I can feel it.

  This is the beginning of my romantic comedy.