Pineapples & Auction

Pineapple on pizza. Unbelievable. War crime.

Toran stared at the steaming latte and the offensive box of pizza like they were ticking time bombs. She tapped her fingers against the counter, gaze flicking toward the newly fixed café window. The bastard boss barely replaced light bulbs when they burned out, let alone an entire shattered window. No way in hell did he suddenly grow a conscience overnight.

So who—

She let out a small scoff under her breath, No way.

The colorful-haired man. Could it be?

The one who crashed through her window, bled all over her café, and smirked at her like he had nothing to lose. She didn’t know his name, but something about him—the confidence, the arrogance, the resources—told her he wasn’t just some street thug playing gangster.

She carefully adjusted her expression, tucking away any sharp edges behind a carefully crafted barista’s persona. A little exasperation, a little weariness, just enough to make it look like she was mildly annoyed, rather than uneasy as hell.

Because she was.

This was too much effort for some guy who’d randomly crashed through a café window. A normal thug would have disappeared by now, licking his wounds somewhere far away. This? This was different.

Toran clicked her tongue, muttering about how she wasn’t getting paid enough for this. With an exaggerated sigh, she grabbed the pizza box and latte, stepping outside the coffee shop towards the lone corner where a homeless man curled up beneath tattered blankets. She plastered on a customer service smile—hollow, perfunctory—and handed over the food. The man poured out thanks, words tumbling over one another in gratitude. She dismissed them with a nod and turned on her heels, heading back into the café without a second glance.

Bean There, Done That Cafe. The scent of fresh coffee and steamed milk curled around her, deceptively warm against the sterile hum of the café. The place looked modern and cozy for customers, but she knew its flaws—flickering lights, a closet-sized employee room, and security cameras that hadn’t worked in years. And the fake plants—bright, lively, and artificial, much like the carefully curated smile she wore behind the counter. 

Her shift passed uneventfully until lunchtime, when something unusual caught her eye. A ticket, pristine and expensive, lay on the counter. No name. No note. Just an invitation to the antique gun exhibit downtown. Her brows furrowed as she picked it up. VIP access. 

Her first instinct was skepticism. Who the hell left something this valuable unattended? Lindell City wasn’t the kind of place where people misplace small fortunes. The paranoia kicked in. Was she being watched? It was just a ticket. Just an expensive, random ticket. But Lindell City wasn’t the kind of place where luck dropped things into people’s laps without strings attached. Her fingers twitched slightly as she turned it over again, searching for any clue—an imprint, a watermark, anything. Nothing.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to loosen her grip. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was overthinking. But that feeling, the prickle at the back of her neck, wouldn't go away. She set the thought aside for later, pocketing the ticket with a casual flick of her wrist and refocusing on the task at hand. One mystery at a time.

She turned the ticket over in her fingers, then pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, sending it to Alie.

Less than five minutes later, her phone rang. "Toran," Alie’s voice was a mix of disbelief and demand. "Where the hell did you get that ticket?"

"Someone left it here," she answered casually, already formulating a plan. "And before you ask, yes, I want to auction it."

A pause. Then, "Are you serious?"

Toran smirked, tapping the ticket against the counter. "One dollar starting bid. But here’s the catch: every bid must be double the last or higher. If the last bid is four dollars, the next must be eight. Auction ends four hours before the event. The highest bidder wins." The gun exhibit was going to be four days later. She got time to kill.

The auction page refreshed, the starting bid at one dollar, and Toran smiled to herself as she heard Alie screech on the other end of the phone.

“Are you really serious?”

“Completely,” Toran replied smoothly, absentmindedly drumming her fingers against the café counter. The idea was absurd, reckless, and yet—oh, so fun. A bidding war was inevitable. Someone would get caught up in the madness, pushed by pride, ego, or sheer stubbornness, and the price would skyrocket.

That was the nature of chaos.

A small price to pay for the entertainment.

Yet, despite the amusement bubbling in her chest, a small part of her mind wandered back to the window.

The shattered glass had barely been swept up before it was replaced—flawlessly, seamlessly, as if nothing had happened. The kind of repair job that didn’t just happen overnight unless someone with deep pockets made a call.

The kind of thing someone with power arranged.

And then there was the text message: Next time, take the elevator. I cleared the rats.

Toran frowned slightly, rolling her shoulder as an uneasy shiver tried to creep up her spine. The colorful-haired man again. She was sure of it.

He had been watching.

And somehow, the idea of that bothered her less than it should have.

It wasn’t fear.

Not quite.

It was more like… a mix of fear and anticipation.

Which was so much worse.

Alie was already shrieking on the other end, likely grasping the absurdity of the system. A bidding war was inevitable. The ticket had the potential to reach astronomical figures if the bidders weren’t careful. Toran, however, wasn’t interested in the money. Not really. She was interested in the game.

After finalizing the details, she hung up, spinning the ticket between her fingers with a satisfied grin. If someone wanted it badly enough, they’d pay. If not? Well, she had no issue attending an event filled with dangerous, well-connected individuals. A win-win situation.

Toran swirled her coffee absentmindedly, watching the auction’s opening bids roll in. It had been easy to set up. Stupidly easy. Alie followed her instructions to the letter—one dollar starting bid, each new bid doubling the last. A simple system, yet primed for disaster.

People never read the fine print.

She could already see it—someone would rush to outbid another, thinking they had control, only to realize they’d locked themselves into a bidding war they hadn’t fully grasped. By the time they noticed, it would be too late.

The ticket was expensive, sure. But by the end of four days?

It would be ridiculous.

Her fingers tapped lazily against her phone. Who would be the idiot to take it in the end? And if things got too tame? If the excitement dipped?

Well. That’s why she had the bot.

Tamura’s fingers drummed lazily against the polished mahogany of his desk, his gaze fixed on the security feed live-streaming from the café. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke in languid curls as he watched Toran’s little scheme unfold.

"You wanna play market manipulator, darling?" His lips curled into a feral grin. "Oh, I like you."

She wasn’t just clever. She was dangerous. That kind of devious streak made his pulse spike. His burner phone buzzed. Alie’s auction link. The bids had already begun—$512. Amateur numbers.

Tamura smirked, thumbed in a bid without hesitation: $10,000.

Tamura’s fingers hovered over his burner phone, thumb poised to type out another taunt, another carefully crafted escalation designed to pull Toran further into his game. He could already see it—her eyes narrowing at the text, her lips pressing into that half-scowl, half-smirk she thought no one noticed.

But instead of sending the message, he stopped.

He leaned back into his leather seat, exhaling slowly, tapping the edge of his phone against his thigh. She was expecting him to text her by now.

Expecting another move.

And that was exactly why he wouldn’t.

Tamura smirked, tilting his head as he stared at the auction screen, the numbers holding steady. His fingers flexed, resisting the itch to fill the silence, to remind her that he was still there, still watching, still playing. But some games weren’t about constant pressure—sometimes, the best way to make someone lean in was to pull back just enough.

He flicked his lighter open and closed, watching the minutes tick by without making a move.

Would she text first?

Would she check the auction page obsessively, wondering where he was?

Would she miss him?

His grin widened at the thought.

Maybe this was even better.

Let her think she’d won a round. Let her start to anticipate his presence, crave the next move.

Then—only then—he’d strike again.

For now? He let the phone rest on the desk, untouched. The silence was part of the game.

The moment she saw the message, everything clicked. The colorful peacock who had crashed into her café wasn’t just a reckless thug. Toran’s brown eyes flickered to the fixed window, a frown tugging at her lips. She had suspected him before, but this? This confirmed it. He was watching her.

She stared at the blurred photo of her stepping into her apartment complex, the faint glow of the streetlamp casting distorted shadows around her. He hadn’t just followed her. He had been there long enough to capture the moment she walked inside. A shiver crawled up her spine, but she forced her grip on the phone to relax.

Her mind turned to the café. If he had been watching her this closely, what about her workplace? Could he have rigged the shop too? Cameras? Bugs? Her jaw clenched as she exhaled through her nose. She had no proof, but the thought was enough to make her skin prickle. Another chill ran down her spine, but underneath it, something else curled, slow and insidious. Excitement. He was watching her. Closely. She should have been rattled. Should have been more angry. Instead, she exhaled, half a smirk playing at the edge of her lips. Well. If he wanted a game, she’d make sure he got his money’s worth.

“Stalker. Creep,” she said out loud to the empty coffee shop. A test.

Her thoughts were quickly interrupted by a delivery. A sleek black box containing a 1920s expresso tamper and a handwritten note. The courier had left the box with her and hurried away to his next deliveries. Toran crumbled the note in her hand, her gaze unreadable. She opened an app and quickly typed something and quickly closed her phone. Her eyes landed on the tamper, and she went to store it away in her locker.

Half an hour later, the auction page flickered, and a new user joined the fray. $21,920. Toran leaned against the counter, idly stirring her coffee as she watched the numbers change. She could almost hear him frowning at the screen. Figure that one out, Peacock.



Tamura leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly spinning the Glock on his desk as he refreshed the auction page. His lips curled at the new bid—$21,920. Someone thought they could outmaneuver him. Cute. He chuckled, low and dark, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room.

“And here I thought I was the only one with a flair for the dramatic,” he murmured, taking a drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled around his face, blending with the dim light filtering through the blinds.

He punched in a bid without hesitation: $50,000. Let’s see how deep their pockets go.

Seconds later, Toran’s phone lit up with a message, unsigned:

— $50,000. That’s my opening offer. Don’t get too attached to the idea of auctioning it off. I’m not known for playing fair.
— P.S. I prefer “admirer” over “stalker.” Less creepy, more... professional.

Attached: a photo of her from earlier that morning, framed by the window he’d had replaced overnight. The dragon tattoo on his forearm was visible in the reflection, the greenish scales catching the light.

He tossed the phone onto the desk and stood, stretching as he walked to the window overlooking the city. Lindell was alive with possibilities, but none as intriguing as the barista who’d turned his impromptu chaos into a high-stakes game. His fingers traced the edge of the window frame, his mind already racing with his next move.

Toran, meanwhile, barely tore her eyes from her phone. Her hands, though, were steady as she crafted an order. Toran tapped her fingers against the counter, watching the auction refresh. Her plan had been simple—set up the chaos, sit back, and enjoy the show. But now?

She found herself checking more often than she meant to.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Just entertainment.

But when the latest bid came in—$50,000—her stomach didn’t twist with amusement. It twisted with anticipation. She exhaled sharply, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. It’s just a game. That’s all it was.

She wiped her hands on her apron before pulling out his business card, hesitating before typing:

— $50,000?! Is this some kind of sick joke? You know you’ll have to pay for that ticket (again) if you’re the highest bid by the end of the auction, right?
— What part of this is professional??? You go re-read the messages you sent me and then come back here and tell me that’s not stalker’s behavior… Also. What the hell am I supposed to do with the tamper? I don’t even have an espresso machine.

Tamura grinned at her reply, his fingers already flying over the screen:

— $50k? Sweetheart, I tip more than that to piss off my enemies. Consider this my down payment. Heh.
— Professionalism’s overrated. I prefer… hands-on negotiations. You’ll learn.
— The tamper’s a preview. Vintage espresso machine arrives tonight. Consider it a gesture. Call it… hazard pay.

Just as he sent the message, another notification popped up. A new bid—$100,001.

Tamura’s amusement faltered. He refreshed the page. His jaw tightened slightly. Julien? If his cousin wanted to play in his arena, he should have at least signed his name. Tamura frowned, his fingers drumming on the leather couch. Another player? Or is Julien messing with him?

Tamura watched the screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, his smirk still carved into place. The game was moving as expected. His expected.

Then that damn user appeared.

His jaw ticked. He refreshed the page again. Julien wouldn’t play this way. Too messy, too direct. For the first time since this started, he hesitated.

A ghost of irritation flickered beneath the surface—no, not irritation. Uncertainty. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. It didn’t matter. Nothing he couldn’t break apart in time.

She sent off another text to Tamura:

— Tell me that’s not you, too. If so, I’ll call the institution so they can help you. Mental institution.

—P.S Wired my shop, really? Yup. Definitely stalker mentality.

She almost forgot about that detail. Toran sighed, dramatically raking a hand through her hair as she typed out her next frantic-sounding message. The moment she hit send, she let the mask slip—just a fraction. Behind her phone, her lips curled, amused. If he thought she was rattled, he’d chase harder. She just had to keep feeding him the right bait. Things were finally getting interesting around here. Let him watch. Let him listen. She will make him dance to her tune.

Another text fired off from Tamura:

— $100k’s not me, darling. Seems you’ve got another admirer. How treasonous.

— P.S. Wired your shop? Please. I’m a gentleman. I just know how to appreciate a view.

His burner buzzed again—Julien’s taunt: Cousin, playing pawn to a barista? Pathetic. Tamura deleted it, icy rage simmering beneath his grin. Instead, he sent Toran a photo: the vintage espresso machine enroute to her apartment, wrapped in blood-red silk. Caption: Careful with the buttons. They’re as sensitive as you.

Leaning back, he stared at the security feed—Toran’s smirk barely hidden behind her phone. There it is. The crack in her armor. He’d widen it. Soon.

Tamura leaned back against his leather chair, swirling the expensive glass of whiskey in his hand as he stared at the auction screen. His mind went back to the new user.

$100,001. A deliberate number, the kind that mocked him.

His first thought—Julien.

The bastard had his spies watching him, always circling, waiting for an opening. Tamura wouldn’t put it past him to screw with the auction just to piss him off.

He flicked ashes from his cigarette into the tray beside him.

But something didn’t sit right.

Julien was calculating, but this? This was too petty. Julien played long-term games, pulling strings where they mattered. He wasn’t the type to sit around bidding on some auction just to be a nuisance.

So if not him, then—

Tamura exhaled, running a hand through his mess of colorful hair, before turning back to the screen.

A third player.

Unexpected.

Unaccounted for.

His fingers hovered over the bid button, but instead of pressing it, he leaned back, grinning as the thought settled in.

Well. This just got interesting.