Chapter 3: Oh! Strawberry Crepes!

Part 1

The walk home felt like a slow‑motion funeral procession bathed in the deceptive, honey‑amber glow of golden hour. In a movie, this light would signal a first kiss or a sweeping orchestral swell. For the trio, it only highlighted the tragic, disheveled state of their existence.

Olivia let out a sigh so long. Her shoulders slumped in Shakespearean despair. She dragged the toes of her loafers across the pavement—scuff, scuff, scuff—leaving a jagged trail of white rubber behind her.

“We lost him,” she lamented.

Sera didn’t look up. She held her phone in a white‑knuckled grip, scrolling the university’s “Spotted” page. She scanned for keywords: sausage, choking, disaster trio, why is this campus cursed.

“Well, sorry for prioritizing your ability to breathe, Olivia,” Sera muttered, though her ears were still a vivid, humiliated pink. “Next time, I’ll let you die so you can maintain the integrity of your meet‑cute.”

“I had it under control,” Olivia croaked, touching her throat with two fingers like she was checking for structural damage. “I was simply… in a state of high‑stakes meditation. My body was focused on the internal battle.”

“You were the color of an overripe eggplant,” Erika said flatly.

Erika walked with her head tilted back, eyes shut behind her oversized sunglasses. Her nostrils flared in three‑second intervals—sniff, sniff, sniff—like a malfunctioning weather sensor trying to recalibrate after trauma. She was attempting to filter out the lingering scent of the quad, but all she could smell was stadium‑grade mustard.

Olivia stopped dead. Her loafers screeched against the concrete like a violin being murdered. She threw her arms wide, nearly smacking a passing office worker who dodged with the reflexes of someone who had seen too much.

“Failure!” Olivia bellowed at the sky. “Pure, unadulterated narrative stagnation! We had a Flag! And you two let a Legendary Spawn walk away without even checking his stats!”

Sera and Erika halted. They turned in unison, offering a synchronized deadpan stare. Sera’s left eye twitched.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t try to monologue with a mouthful of pork product,” Sera said, voice flat. “You turned a romance into a medical emergency. That’s not a Flag, Olivia. That’s a liability.”

But Olivia’s righteous fury had the shelf life of a warm yogurt. Her head snapped left, hair whipping her cheeks with an audible thwack. Her eyes locked onto a neon‑yellow street cart on the corner.

“Oh! Strawberry crepes!”

Without waiting, she veered off with the sudden speed of someone whose injuries were highly selective. Sera and Erika stood in exhausted silence as Olivia practically vibrated in front of the vendor, tapping the glass like she was inputting a cheat code.

A few minutes later, Olivia bounced back, cradling an overstuffed crepe like a holy relic. She took a giant, ungraceful bite—munch—and a dollop of whipped cream immediately claimed the tip of her nose. She hummed with pure dopamine, her near‑death experience already wiped from her mental hard drive.

She stared at them, mouth full, looking like a squirrel who’d just been caught. Then, with sudden theatrical flourish, she shoved the crepe toward their faces—her version of forgive and forget.

“No,” Erika said, arms crossed, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “I don’t want a sympathy crepe. I want a refund on the last two hours of my life.”

Sera stared at the folded pastry. The scent hit her—warm batter, ripe strawberries, the faint promise of temporary emotional relief. Her resistance, weakened by screaming “HELLO I AM NORMAL” in front of strangers, finally cracked.

She leaned in and took a tiny bite.

It was sickeningly sweet. But as she chewed, she realized Olivia wasn’t pulling the crepe back.

Sera’s heart thudded. Olivia was leaning in too—face inches away, breath warm and strawberry‑sweet. The sunset caught the amber in her irises, turning them molten. Sera’s brain sparked, her internal logic center throwing a cascade of Error 404s.

Is this…?
Is she…?
Is this the Yuri route she keeps joking about?

Is she going to—

Sera’s eyelids fluttered.

Olivia’s free hand moved.

Not to cup Sera’s cheek.

Not to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Instead, her fingers dove with surgical precision into the side pocket of Sera’s backpack.

Zzzzip.

The metallic sound hit Sera like a bucket of ice water. Her eyes snapped open.

“Found it!” Olivia chirped, whipping out the sun‑bleached book with a flourish that sent powdered sugar drifting across Sera’s blazer like ironic snow.

Sera stood frozen, mouth full of unswallowed crepe, face burning with a volatile mix of sugar‑shock and self‑loathing. She let out a muffled puff of air—the sound of a crush being brutally liquidated—while Olivia flipped through the brittle pages.

“Here!” Olivia declared, pointing a cream‑smeared finger at a header typeset by someone having a manic episode.

LEVEL 2 — Deliver a Greeting of Great Charm

“A heroine does not mutter from the shadows. She strikes. Say hello with the confidence of a warrior‑king greeting a worthy foe.”

Olivia turned to Erika, eyes sparkling with predatory delight. “Erika. You’re the vanguard now.”

Erika stepped back, sneakers squeaking like a panicked mouse. “Absolutely not. My nose is offline. I can’t differentiate between your perfume and the smell of industrial‑grade failure right now.”

“Oh, I thought you’d say that,” Olivia said sweetly.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen with the casual grace of a bomb detonator.

Then she hit Play.

Erika’s frantic sniffing filled the quiet street—followed by her own voice, low and unhinged:

‘You smell… You smell like trustworthy cedar and a hint of a mid‑range electrolyte drink. Wait—don’t move. I haven’t reached the heart notes yet.’

“Delete it,” Erika hissed, lunging.

Olivia lifted the phone high, standing on tiptoes. “In my past life, I wrestled mountain trolls! This is basic evasion!”

Exhausted, out‑reached, and one tap away from social annihilation, Erika slumped.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I’m being blackmailed by an amnesiac harem king with whipped cream on her nose. Let’s start the strategy session.”

Olivia beamed. “Excellent! Now—should the greeting involve a three‑point landing or a traditional samurai bow? The bow says ‘respect,’ but the landing says ‘I have arrived and I am dangerous.’”

Part 2

The “Strategy Session” happened on the move—mostly consisting of Olivia striking high‑energy magical‑girl poses while Erika trudged beside her like she was hoping the pavement would open up and swallow her whole.

“Just ignore her,” Erika muttered, eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses as she locked onto a target across the street. “I’m choosing my own quest marker.”

A guy stood at the same crepe stand they’d just abandoned. Beige cardigan. Polished loafers. Counting coins with the serene focus of someone who had never known chaos. He looked stable. He looked peaceful. He looked like the perfect, unsuspecting victim for Level 2.

“You better delete the video the second I’m done,” Erika hissed, voice low and vibrating with threat.

“Cross my heart and hope for a plot twist!” Olivia chirped, drawing a dramatic X over her chest with a cream‑smeared finger.

Erika inhaled, squared her shoulders, and began her death march. Spine straight. Chin up. Hands at her sides. No leaning. No sniffing. Just a Greeting of Great Charm.

But as she closed the five‑foot radius, the air shifted.

A familiar scent hit her—high‑end laundry detergent, expensive hair gel, and the sharp, unmistakable aroma of pure, concentrated anxiety.

Erika’s internal database pinged a violent red alert.

I know this smell.

This is the scent of Legal Consequences.

The guy turned.

Beige Cardigan Guy didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. His face cycled through confusion, then recognition, before landing on sheer, unfiltered terror.

“You,” he gasped, voice cracking like dry parchment.

“Hi?” Erika managed, her voice reaching a pitch only dogs could hear. “I just wanted to—”

“STAY BACK!” he shrieked.

His hands flew up in a defensive jerk. The ten‑dollar crepe slid out of its sleeve like a tragic shooting star, performing a graceful half‑flip before hitting the pavement with a wet, splattering smack at Erika’s feet.

“I have the papers! I’ll call the precinct! I’m calling them right now!”

He didn’t wait for a rebuttal. He bolted—cardigan flapping behind him like the wings of a panicked moth—vanishing around the corner with the speed of a man fleeing a natural disaster.

Erika stared down at the mangled crepe, its strawberry‑chocolate guts oozing across the sidewalk.

“I didn’t even get to the Charm part.”

Behind her, Olivia’s laughter detonated—loud, unhinged, echoing off the brick walls. A group of bystanders froze mid‑photo.

“Oh, the drama! The tension! The sheer, unrefined rejection!” Olivia doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Erika, you’re not a heroine—you’re a recurring mid‑season villain!”

She staggered forward, eyes squeezed shut from laughing so hard, pointing a trembling finger at the fallen crepe. “You literally have a Fear Au—”

SQUELCH.

Olivia’s sneaker landed squarely in the center of the discarded whipped cream and strawberry sauce. The crepe acted like industrial‑grade lubricant. For a heartbeat, Olivia defied gravity—left foot shooting forward, upper body suspended in a laughing pose.

Then gravity collected its debt.

POP.

The sound echoed off the brick wall. Olivia hit the ground hard.

“Yee,” she squeaked—a tiny, high‑pitched puff of air.

The laughter died instantly. Her face went parchment‑white as she clutched her right ankle.

“Owwie. My… my character HP. It’s in the red.”