(Maguro's POV)
Chiyo and I had a deal.
I'd clean the café, scrub the windows, fix the espresso machine (maybe), and in return she'd stop floating behind me whispering
"You're doing that wrong" every five minutes.
…She didn't keep her end of the deal.
"You're doing that wrong," she said now, again, for the fourth time in the last ten minutes.
"I'm using ancient deep-sea cleaning techniques," I huffed, slapping a dusty chair with a wet kelp rag.
"This method has been used by reef guardians for centuries."
"That's seaweed."
"Exactly."
"You're slapping furniture with it."
"That's called scrubbing."
"It's not scrubbing if you're just making it smell like sushi."
The café was, in technical terms, a disaster zone.
The wallpaper was peeling like old sunburn.
The floorboards creaked ominously, like they were whispering secrets to each other. Every drawer I opened contained either spoons or something that made me scream and shut it immediately.
Still, I was full of hope.
"We're going to make this work," I told Chiyo confidently as I struggled to open a stuck cabinet with my foot.
"You said that five minutes ago before you spilled mop water on the breaker panel."
"That was an experiment. Electricity is fascinating."
"You fried the ghost kettle."
"I said sorry!"
Chiyo, in case you're wondering, is the most dramatic dead person I've ever met.
She floats around the café like she's the misunderstood spirit in a tragic musical. Her hobbies include judging me silently, making ghost coffee no one can drink, and talking about how much better things were "back in 2003."
Today she was drifting in midair upside down again, arms crossed, apron somehow still tied like she was clocked in.
"You ever worked in food service before, Fishface?"
"I've fought sea dragons."
"That doesn't count unless they asked for soy milk instead of almond and then screamed about it for 15 minutes."
"…That feels oddly specific."
She sighed and spun herself upright. "If we're opening this place again, you need real help. And I'm dead. Legally and emotionally."
"I can do it!" I said brightly. "I have determination, sea instincts, and strong kelp-slapping arms."
"You also have no plumbing skills, no wiring knowledge, and I'm 90% sure the espresso machine is trying to curse me again."
"I thought it just growled once."
"It whispered my name in Latin!"
We both paused, eyes on the old machine in the corner. It hissed.
Chiyo crossed her arms tighter. "You need someone who deals with this stuff."
"Like a repairman?"
"Worse," she muttered. "You need an exorcist."
And as if the cursed café gods heard her…
There was a knock.
Then a loud voice.
"FEAR NOT, COFFEE-DAMNED MORTALS! I HAVE ARRIVED!"
I gasped. "A prophet!"
Chiyo groaned. "No. Him."
The door swung open.
A man stood in the frame, wearing a long dark coat that was definitely too dramatic for the weather, sunglasses indoors, and a scarf blowing in a breeze that did not exist.
He held… a holy water sprayer in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other.
"I sensed unrest," he said, dramatically removing his shades.
"And also smelled dumplings. I was nearby."
Chiyo floated toward him with the deadpan energy of someone who'd filed ghost taxes.
"Takashi," she said flatly.
"Chiyo," he nodded. "Still dead, I see."
"Still unemployed?"
"Temporarily between miracles."
They stared at each other with mutual, exhausted familiarity.
I stood between them, eyes sparkling. "You know each other?!"
"We used to haunt the same forum," Chiyo muttered.
"I tried to exorcise this place once," Takashi said proudly, biting into a dumpling.
"Didn't work. Got banned from Yelp instead."
"I left the bad review," Chiyo said, smirking.
"He spilled holy water on the cash register and called it a purification rite."
"I WAS IN CHARACTER."
"I want to hire him!" I declared.
"He has flare! He has passion! He has… spooky spray!"
Chiyo floated closer to me and whispered, "He also once got paid in ham sandwiches."
"That's still currency!"
Takashi set his bag down. "For a reasonable fee—say, one meal and three compliments—I will purify this sacred bean site."
"I can do one steamed bun and eternal respect."
"Done."
We gathered in the center of the café, the haunted espresso machine looming ominously in the corner like a sleeping kraken.
Takashi raised his hand and took a deep breath. "Spirits of bitterness! Froth of the beyond! I command thee—"
Chiyo leaned over to me. "Watch this. He's gonna quote a video game next."
"—by the sacred seal of Final Fantasy VII—"
"There it is," she muttered.
Takashi began waving a sage bundle around.
The smoke curled through the air dramatically, making him cough immediately.
"I didn't light the right end—hold on—"
"Are you sure this is an exorcism?" I whispered.
"I think he's doing a magic-based improv monologue," Chiyo replied.
The espresso machine hissed.
Takashi gasped. "It's reacting!"
Chiyo rolled her eyes. "It does that when the temperature gauge's busted."
"No! It's awakening! Stand back!"
He flung holy water at it.
There was a sizzle.
Then the lights flickered.
Then something groaned inside the machine and—
CLUNK.
A coffee pod popped out and landed on the counter.
Takashi froze. Chiyo floated back slightly. I picked up the pod and read it.
"Pumpkin spice. Extra haunted."
"…I've never been more confused in my life," I said.
Chiyo sighed. "And this is the man you want to hire?"
"I like his energy."
To everyone's surprise—including his own—the espresso machine started working again. Sort of.
It puffed. Hissed. And poured a shot of espresso… that immediately burst into green flames.
"…That's new," said Chiyo.
Takashi stared at it, stunned. "It accepted the rite."
"You threw dumpling sauce at it five minutes ago," Chiyo muttered.
"Witchcraft," I whispered in awe.
By evening, the café was still a disaster, but now a disaster with a working coffee machine, a partially exorcised broom closet, and a maybe-legit-maybe-delusional exorcist who kept calling me "Lady of the Bean."
Takashi stayed for dinner (leftover instant noodles and ghost-made toast). He told dramatic stories about haunted ramen shops and cursed blenders while Chiyo muttered corrections and floated past holding a ghost Swiffer.
I sat on the counter, swinging my legs, watching the dim lights flicker.
"Hey Chiyo," I said quietly, "I think we're really doing this."
She looked at me, her expression unreadable.
Then she sighed. "Fine. But if the blender starts speaking Latin again, I'm out."
To be continued…