BREW

Tuesday ran like her life depended on it—because it does.

She burst out of the cubicle, desperation gripping her chest like a vice. The restroom warped around her. The walls throbbed with human veins, pulsing, and eyeballs bulged from the tiles, tracking her with silent horror. The mirrors twisted her reflection into something wicked—a smiling, head-banging mimic, its forehead cracking the glass in a frenzy to escape.

She didn't stop. She couldn't.

The hallway, which should have taken three seconds to cross at full sprint, stretched endlessly, each step heavier than the last. When she finally reached the exit—what she found was worse.

She wasn't in school anymore.

A vast wasteland greeted her. No buildings. No cars. No signs of life—only choking fog that bit her lungs and dissolved her sense of direction. Behind her, the bathroom door stood like a tomb. Ahead, the only source of light flickered faintly from the distance.

Without thinking, she followed the glow—leaving behind a faint, bittersweet trace of coffee in the air.

Inside the bathroom… something else emerged.

Anomalies clawed their way into existence. But one stood above the rest.

Tall. Sickly thin. Nearly eight feet.

Its bones twisted at unnatural angles, shoved into skin like a poorly packed suitcase. It had no face—just a blank, wax-like mask where features should be. Eyes, nose, mouth—all gone, like they'd been scrubbed away violently.

Even the other anomalies trembled in its presence.

It glided toward the fourth cubicle, drawn to it like a predator to blood, as if the air itself whispered: "Prey."

Time passed—how much, she didn't know.

Tuesday stumbled blindly through the fog until a neighborhood materialized from nowhere. Despite the impossibility, it felt familiar. The streetlights flickered, homes stood eerily still, and not a soul stirred. The reek of burnt coffee grew stronger the deeper she wandered.

She didn't call for help recklessly—not after what she'd seen.

Instead, she ducked into a narrow alley, resting against the wall beneath a broken lamp. The scent made her nauseous, but exhaustion overpowered her fear. Her eyelids drooped… and then, the sound came.

Wheels.

She opened her eyes.

Squeak… squeak… clink.

She peered around the corner—and froze.

There it was.

Something worse than the bathroom.

An inch away from her face.

It stood around 6'3, skin pale as porcelain, stained by slow-dripping coffee streaks—like it was leaking brewed nightmares from inside. Its eyes were nothing more than hollow, coffee-ring burns, and its mouth was stitched shut with threads of burnt sugar. Still, steam hissed from the seams, as if the pressure inside was dying to scream.

A smile flickered—on and off—like it wasn't sure how to exist.

Veins twisted along its arms like coffee plant roots, one hand stirring something invisible, twitching unnaturally.

The other hand smoked, as if it had been dipped in boiling liquid.

It wore a burnt, patchwork apron, soaked in dark stains that pulsed like organs, and beneath the fabric, vague, unmoving faces seemed sewn into the fibers.

The cart it pushed floated, wheels melted into goo.

Yet the sound of creaking wheels echoed anyway.

"Where's that sound coming from?" she thought.

Steam rose from the cart constantly.

On the front was a warped sign:

"Would you like peace or pain today?"

Attached to the side were metal cups, each tagged with names—names of the dead.

And one of them read: "Tuesday."

She lost control of her body.

She wet herself in terror.

She collapsed to the ground, crawling backward, but the thing followed silently.

It didn't walk. It glided.

And wherever it passed, the air warped with a bubbling hiss, the scent of despair soaked in coffee grounds.

Its voice boiled like a whistling kettle—words distorted, wet, yet still understandable. But her fear deafened her.

She didn't comprehend anything.

Then it held out the cup with her name.

She didn't take it.

But it appeared in her hands anyway.

Then it whispered:

"No payment needed. Seek the ones with power. They'll help you."

She didn't look back.

She walked, trembling, drenched in fear, holding the cursed cup like it was ticking.

When she glanced back, it was gone.

Meanwhile, in Valen's pov…

He looked down at his apron, smiling.

"Do I really look that scary?" he muttered.

"I even picked the Hello Kitty one."