Chapter 3: Oh! Strawberry Crepes!

Part 1

The walk home felt a slow-motion funeral procession bathed in the deceptive, honey-colored glow of golden hour. In a movie, this light would suggest a first kiss, a realization of love, or a swelling orchestral score; for the trio, it only served to highlight the tragic, disheveled state of their existence.

Olivia let out a sigh so long and thin it whistled through her teeth—the sound of a tire slowly losing all its dignity. Her shoulders were slumped in a posture of Shakespearean tragedy. She dragged the toes of her loafers against the pavement—scuff, scuff, scuff—leaving a jagged trail of white rubber marks behind her.

“We lost him,” she lamented, her voice a ragged, gravelly rasp.

Sera didn’t look up. She held her phone in a white-knuckled death grip, her thumb twitching rhythmically as she scrolled through the university’s “Spotted” page, searching for any digital evidence of their earlier catastrophe. She was looking for keywords: Sausage, Choking, Disaster Trio.

“Well, sorry for placing priority on our friend’s ability to draw oxygen, Olivia,” Sera muttered, though her ears were still a vivid, humiliated pink. “Next time, I’ll make sure to prioritize the ‘meet-cute’ while your pulse is flatlining.”

“I had it under control,” Olivia croaked. She gingerly touched her throat with two fingers, wincing as she swallowed. “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 countered.

Erika walked with her head tilted back, eyes shut tight behind her oversized sunglasses. Her nostrils flared in three-second intervals—a rhythmic, twitching intake of air like a malfunctioning weather sensor. She was trying to filter out the smell of the quad, but all she could find was the lingering, mocking scent of stadium-grade mustard.

Olivia stopped dead, her loafers screeching against the concrete with the sound of a violin being murdered. She threw her arms wide, nearly smacking a passing office worker who hopped out of the way with a look of pure concern.

“Failure!” Olivia bellowed at the sky. “Pure, unadulterated narrative stagnation! We had a Flag! And it’s your fault for focusing on my breathing instead of his extraction point! We let a Legendary Spawn walk away without even checking his stats!”

Sera and Erika halted. They turned in unison, offering a perfectly synchronized deadpan stare. Sera’s left eye gave a small, involuntary twitch—a Morse-code pulse of pure irritation.

“This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you didn’t try to monologue with a mouthful of pork product,” Sera said, her voice as flat and dangerous as a spirit level. “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 an open yogurt in the sun. Her head snapped to the left, her hair whipping her cheeks with an audible thwack. Her eyes locked onto a neon-yellow street cart on the corner, and the tragedy evaporated instantly.

“Oh! Strawberry crepes!”

Without waiting for a response, Olivia veered off. Her “injured” lungs apparently had a hidden nitro-boost reserved specifically for sugar-related emergencies. Sera and Erika stood on the sidewalk in exhausted silence, watching Olivia practically vibrate in front of the vendor, her finger tapping rapidly against the glass display case as if she were inputting a cheat code.

A few minutes later, Olivia bounced back, cradling a massive, 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 let out a soft, melodic hum of pure dopamine, her near‑death experience already wiped from her mental hard drive.

She looked at them, cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s. Then, with sudden, magnanimous grace, she thrust the crepe towards both of their faces.

“No,” Erika said, crossing her arms and tucking her hands into her armpits. She pushed her sunglasses up with one finger, but they immediately slipped back down her nose. “I don’t want a sympathy crepe. I want a refund on the last two hours of my life.”

Sera, however, stared at the folded pastry. The scent hit her—warm batter, ripe fruit, and the faint, treacherous promise of temporary emotional relief. The wall of her resistance, weakened by screaming out “HELLO I AM NORMAL” in front of strangers, finally crumbled.

She leaned in and took a tentative, tiny bite.

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

Sera’s heart gave a sudden, traitorous thud. Olivia was leaning in, her face inches away, her breath smelling of warm strawberries. The sunset caught the amber in her irises, turning them into molten glass that seemed to lock Sera in place.

Is she…? Sera’s brain began to spark, her internal logic center throwing a cascade of Error 404 messages.

Is this it? The sub-plot? The Yuri route that Olivia babbles about between delusional rants? Is she going to—

Sera’s eyelids fluttered, nearly closing, when Olivia’s free hand moved.

She didn’t cup Sera’s cheek. She didn't tuck a stray lock of hair behind Sera's ear.

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

The sharp, metallic sound of the zipper acted like a bucket of ice water to the face. Sera’s eyes snapped open.

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

Sera stood frozen, her mouth still full of unswallowed crepe, her face burning with a volatile mix of sugar-shock and profound self-loathing. She let out a muffled, pathetic puff of air—the sound of a crush being brutally liquidated—her shoulders sagging as Olivia ignored her entirely to flip through the brittle, yellowed pages.

“Here!” Olivia declared, pointing a cream-smeared finger at a fresh header that looked like it had been typeset by someone having a manic episode in 1994.

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 on the field of honor.”

Olivia turned to Erika, her eyes sparkling with a predatory, mischievous light. “Erika. I declare you to be the vanguard now. You’re going first.”

Erika took a sharp step back, her sneakers squeaking against the concrete like a panicked mouse. “Absolutely not. I am still in a sensory recovery phase. My nose is offline. I can’t even differentiate between your perfume and the smell of industrial-grade failure right now.”

“Oh, I thought you might say that,” Olivia said, her voice turning dangerously melodic. She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out her smartphone, her thumb hovering over the screen with the casual grace of a bomb detonator. “Which is why I took a little… digital insurance… of your ‘Scent Audit’ earlier.”

She hit Play.

The quiet street was pierced by the tinny, high-definition sound of Erika’s frantic, rhythmic sniffing—followed by her own voice, low and vibrating with unhinged intensity:

‘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, her face turning a mottled purple as she lunged for the phone.

Olivia hoisted the device high above her head, standing on her tiptoes. Despite her insanity, she was taller—and her “Oliver the Magnificent” delusional muscle memory gave her a reach Erika couldn’t touch. Erika hopped pathetically, hands swiping at empty air like a declawed cat.

“In my past life, I wrestled mountain trolls for a hobby, Erika! This is basic evasion!” Olivia boasted, flexing a bicep while maintaining her high-ground advantage. The dollop of whipped cream on her nose trembled with every word, but didn't fall.

Exhausted, out-reached, and painfully aware that the video was one ‘Share’ tap away from ending her social life, Erika finally slumped. Her head dropped forward, her bangs shielding her eyes in a shadow of pure defeat.

“Fine,” she whispered, venom dripping from every syllable. “I’m being blackmailed by an amnesiac harem king with whipped cream on her nose. Damn it. Let’s start the strategy session.”

Olivia beamed, tucking the phone away with triumphant, royal grace. “Excellent! Now—do you think the greeting should involve a three-point landing, or a traditional samurai bow? I feel like the bow says 'respect,' but the landing says 'I have arrived and I am dangerous.'”

Part 2

The so-called “Strategy Session” took place on the move—mostly consisting of Olivia striking various high‑energy poses like she was auditioning for a magical‑girl reboot, while Erika stared at the pavement as if willing it to open up and swallow her whole.

“Just ignore her,” Erika muttered, her eyes narrowing behind her lenses 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 vacated. 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.

“Delete the video the second I’m done,” Erika hissed, her voice a low, vibrating growl.

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

Erika adjusted her sunglasses, took a deep, shaky breath, and began her death march. She focused on her posture—spine straight, chin up, hands firmly at her sides. No leaning. No rhythmic inhaling. Just a Greeting of Great Charm.

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

The wind carried a familiar scent to her—high-end laundry detergent, a hint of expensive hair gel, and the unmistakable, sharp aroma of pure, concentrated anxiety. Erika’s internal database pinged with a violent red alert. Her heart didn’t flutter; it plummeted into her shoes.

I know this smell. This is the scent of Legal Consequences.

The guy turned around, cradling a fresh strawberry‑chocolate crepe.

Their eyes met.

The Guy in the Beige Cardigan didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. His face cycled through confusion, then recognition, before landing on sheer, unadulterated terror.

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

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

“STAY BACK!” he shrieked, his eyes bulging. He flinched so hard his hands flew up in a defensive jerk. The ten-dollar crepe slid out of its sleeve like a falling star, performing a graceful half-flip before hitting the pavement with a wet, tragic 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 turned and bolted, his cardigan flapping behind him like the wings of a panicked moth as he disappeared around the corner. Erika stood frozen, staring down at the mangled, cream-covered ruin on the sidewalk.

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

Behind her, Olivia’s laughter erupted—a loud, unhinged cackle that made a nearby group of tourists stop mid‑photo.

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

Olivia stepped forward, eyes squeezed shut from laughing so hard, pointing a trembling, mocking 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 high-grade industrial lubricant. For a heartbeat, Olivia defied gravity, her left foot shooting forward while her upper body remained suspended in a laughing pose. Then, the debt was collected.

POP.

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

“Yee!” she squeaked, the word coming out as a tiny, high-pitched puff of air.

The laughter died instantly. Her face went a brittle shade of parchment white as she clutched her right ankle. “Ow. My… my character HP. It’s in the red.”