Chapter Text
The pavement smelled of old blood and rotting flesh.
Alastor woke up with his cheek pressed against the cobblestones, feeling each stone digging uncomfortably into his face. Trying to pry his face free, he discovered that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea after all, as his entire body protested as if he'd been shoved in a blender and then spat out.
He sat up slowly, spitting out something dark that tasted like burnt coffee mixed with bile. The taste refused to leave, clinging to his tongue like tar... Not so unpleasant, since he preferred black coffee.
As he focused his gaze around him, he recognized the Victorian houses decorated with far too many bones. The streets were too clean to be in ordinary Hell.
Cannibal Town, he concluded mentally with a long exhalation.
"Damn it," he muttered to himself, noticing how his voice came out raspy, as if there were traces of coffee grounds burning his throat.
As if that weren't enough, his ears perked up toward the maniacal laughter coming from his right. He didn't need to turn around to recognize it, so he let out a grunt of annoyance.
"Alastor, oh dear!"
Rosie's voice, getting closer with each passing second, drilled into the deer's ears as the woman exploded with irony at the sight before her.
"Oh Lucifer! OH GOD!" Rosie was practically doubled over at this point. "You were really careless! LOOK AT YOURSELF!"
Some cannibals had come out of their houses upon hearing the commotion coming from their leader. Expectantly, some joined in Rosie's laughter, though more subduedly; They weren't fools enough to mock him so blatantly in front of the very sinner he was.
Alastor was feeling something deep in his gut that he probably hadn't felt in many years, even since his mortal life... Shame.
"Rosie—"
"NO!" Interrupting whatever excuse he was about to offer, she felt tears streaming down his cheeks. "They left you on my doorstep like garbage!"
The underlying discomfort was a strange sensation that threatened his forced smile. Alastor wasn't used to it.
And he didn't like it.
"If you're finished—"
"NOT EVEN CLOSE," the woman finally wiped away her tears. "But I suppose it's time you went inside before you collapse out here. You look like shit."
Grabbing him with surprising strength for her delicate appearance, Rosie led him toward her Emporium, still chuckling occasionally.
The private back room was familiar territory for the man. Alastor slumped into the Victorian chair without a hitch as Rosie vanished and reappeared instantly with a dark bottle.
"Drink."
"Huh?" A shiver ran through the sinner's misshapen body as the overlord watched him, puzzled by his hesitation.
"It'll help with your discomfort. It's herbal tea. It's nothing special, but it's something."
His gaze shifting between the white teacup and the woman before him, he couldn't help but recall his recent moments outside and snorted, making a soft, hissy sound. Without protest, he sipped the tea.
She sat across from him, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her upper knee, a smile playing on her lips. She was clearly enjoying the situation.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Tell me everything! I'd love to hear both sides of the story."
Raising an eyebrow, the radio operator quickly connected cables and rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he began to recount every moment of his departure from the butcher's shop until the moment his vision went black.
As he listened intently, the cannibal's expression shifted from amused to curious, then thoughtful. She rested her hand on her chin.
"She made you drink it, then," she murmured. "She signed your body. Wow, stupid."
His ears pricked up, he squinted slightly as he tried to process the woman's words.
"What, excuse me?"
"That she can now sense where you are if she cares enough to pay attention." She poured herself some tea before continuing. "It's like... a warning label. 'This idiot tried to kill me, keep an eye on him.'"
Great. Perfect.
Rosie kept her gaze fixed on him for a few seconds, then sighed and her expression changed. She was no longer in the mood.
"Now let's talk about your stupidity."
She narrowed her eyes—or rather, where they should be—at him.
"What the hell is going through your head?" Despite her anger, she clearly didn't need to raise her voice. "Not even a plan? Did you even bother to find out? You didn't even ask me about it."
"I thought I could handle it—"
"You were thinking with your inflated ego." Rosie interrupted. "Do you really think that because you killed eight of us you're capable of lecturing the heavyweights?"
Alastor didn't answer, because he didn't need to. He had already proven that he couldn't.
Rosie leaned back in her armchair, her fingers drumming against her cup.
"Do you think you're special? Do you know how many demons have tried the same thing as you just because their job is to make coffee? Dozens. And do you know how many have survived? Three with you, because they found you entertaining or saw potential. One of them is the Maestro himself, the overlord dedicated to music."
As she let the information sink into Alastor's small brain, she took another sip.
"And yet, you've fallen into that category... Congratulations, I suppose."
"I didn't know you were... friends."
Flattered, Rosie laughed and waved her hand casually.
"We're acquaintances. Colleagues. Oneira and I have a mutual understanding of how to conduct business without descending into the utter barbarity that some overlords prefer. We occasionally share tea, discuss infernal politics like civilized people..."
She paused.
“That’s why she texted me before depositing the money. Professional courtesy. ‘Your associate was an idiot, I handled it, here it is again.’ That kind of text.”
“So you’re not bothered that I attacked her?”
“Bored?” Rosie looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. “Why would I be bothered? Oneira can defend herself perfectly well. Better than I can, even. She doesn’t need anyone to advocate for her.”
She leaned forward.
“What bothers me is that you almost wasted your entire potential because you can’t control your damn ego. Because let me make something clear, Alastor: I have an investment in you. Contractual.”
And there it was again. Alastor grunted and shifted in his seat, looking away after finishing his tea, feeling the medicinal liquid finally settle in his system.
“Lesson learned,” he muttered reluctantly.
“You’d better be.” Rosie stood up. “Because I don’t want to repeat this conversation. Now rest... Or do whatever you please while I decide otherwise. You have weeks of mental recovery ahead of you, and I have a business to run.”
From the comfort of his seat, the demon in red watched as his self-proclaimed 'owner' headed for the door and disappeared through it.
He smiled with distaste, feeling a slight irritation around his neck.
— ꨄ —
The caffeine empire was, truly, a perfect foundation on which to build.
The best way to control people was through need. They had to need you, create an urgent need in them, so that they genuinely couldn't live without you.
Like an addiction.
An addiction that caffeine could easily generate.
Oneira watched from the window of her private office—above the main Manhattan Café branch—as the business district buzzed with nighttime activity. Demons came and went from her establishment, some for the first time, others for the twentieth time that week.
They all came back.
They always came back.
It wasn't just the flavor. It wasn't just the quality. It was what she added to every cup, every drink, every damn sip that passed their lips.
Ordinary caffeine was already addictive by nature. A stimulant that the body began to crave after regular consumption. But Oneira had perfected something more subtle, more insidious.
Their blends masked the initial effects.
A demon could drink three, four, five cups without feeling the full impact. The caffeine silently accumulated, mingling with its infernal chemistry, waiting. And when it finally struck—once the amount in the body was abysmal—it did so with almost triple the potency.
And the best part was that no one questioned it.
Because coffee was respectable.
Socially acceptable. Not like alcohol with its visible drunks or drugs with their obvious addicts. Coffee was the drink of professionals, of busy people, of those who needed to 'stay awake to work.'
No one admitted to caffeine addiction. It was simply "needing coffee to function."
Convenient semantics.
Even if that were the case, who cared? It was hell; alcohol and drugs were everywhere. Coffee was one of the most decent things you could find amidst all the acceptable crap in the pride circle.
What if you mixed caffeine with one of those two? It was addictive.
The placebo and enhancer effects of Manhattan brand coffee worked perfectly in all kinds of consumables. Therefore, its market wasn't limited to just coffee; there was room for all kinds of consumables. Manhattan coffee was like salt in those cases; you didn't always need to experience it pure to consume it, it could also season other foods.
Oneira smiled as she watched a junior overlord—one who had been coming three times a day for the past month—enter again, his expression sophisticated, his eyes bordering on desperation. His hands trembled slightly, and from her perch, she noticed his ragged breathing. A telltale sign of withdrawal starting.
She would order a double espresso. Maybe a triple. And she would feel better for exactly four hours before the cycle restarted.
Perfect.
However, caffeine was only the surface layer of her operation.
What she truly benefited from—and what made her irritatingly present—was the other thing. What came naturally with her control.
Insomnia.
Each cup of her coffee not only created a caffeine dependency. It also subtly interfered with the consumer's ability to sleep.
Obviously, not immediately... but gradually. Cumulatively, its essence seeped into their infernal nervous system, making sleep... difficult. When the demons couldn't sleep, when they closed their eyes and found only unsettling darkness, or worse—someone waiting in that darkness—they returned seeking a solution.
More coffee, obviously. Because if they couldn't sleep anyway, at least they could be functionally awake. Besides, didn't that create more work? Indirectly, she was contributing to Hell's production like no one else could. Shouldn't they be thanking her for that?
It was a beautiful cycle within a cycle within a cycle.
Her attention was interrupted by a brief ring from her cable line.
Her shadow—the other one, her other—materialized, floating near her shoulder, eyeing with a certain distaste the new gadget that facilitated communication for the lady of the house. She didn't speak; she didn't really need words. Oneira sensed her aversion to the futuristic machine that had recently become a common sight in Hell.
As she watched her refuse to adapt to the times, Oneira couldn't help but reminisce about it.
There were two of them. They had always been two, really. Even when she was alive, when she was still human with a name she no longer used, there had already been two consciousnesses sharing one body. Death had only made that division more obvious. More... functional, thankfully; while one acted as the café and its business, the other acted as its consequences, the insomnia.
They worked in perfect sync despite their disagreements in life. Despite having been forced to the confines of hell by the whim of her alter ego.
" ? " with a somber symbol above her, the shadow had remained watching her as Oneira rambled about her past.
Startled, she picked up the phone with a hint of disgust as the dark-haired—or rather, grayish, in this case—woman emerged from her reverie. Wasn't she so good at that? Mara—as the shadow was nicknamed—waited with her eyes blissfully closed for her alter ego to offer her head caresses.
"Welcome, this is Oneira." Immediately ignoring the shadow, the sinner decided to simply answer the ringing line.
"Oneira, have a wonderful day."
A slight smile spread across her face as the dark-haired woman began winding the phone cord with her finger.
"Maestro, what a surprise to see you call. What brings you here?"
Hearing a soft chuckle from the other end, the sinner pricked up her black, mare-like ears, turning her body toward the largest window in her office.
Its tail would swivel charmingly, sweeping up some of the dirt on the ground thanks to its ample length.
"I'd love to. I'll be there."