Poppy Li-Riley | Reedsville

The rich scent of espresso and syrup clings to the air, warm and heady, like a velvet fog wrapping around the customers packed into The Raven’s Roost. The early spring sun creeps through the windows in defiance of the gothic atmosphere Poppy Li-Riley has so painstakingly curated—heavy curtains, shadowy walls, iron accents, and dim amber bulbs meant to mimic candlelight. She squints toward the invading brightness, annoyance flickering across her kohl-lined eyes before turning back to the customer in front of her.

“What can I get you?” she asks, voice flat and dry, edged with that ever-present tone of deadpan mockery. It’s not disdain, not really—just the way she speaks. Cool, clipped, and always vaguely unimpressed. She rings the order up without ceremony and hands over the receipt, nails black and perfectly manicured as they brush against the customer’s fingers.

Then it happens—a sharp voice cracks through the buzz of conversation like a whip. Poppy’s gaze snaps to the end of the counter, where Beth, her newest hire, stands frozen. The girl’s hands tremble as a red-faced man towers over her, coffee sloshing dangerously from the cup he wields like a threat. His voice rises in pitch, barking complaints about a wrong order, about incompetence, about how someone like him deserves better.

Poppy moves before she even thinks, her strides quick and certain. She plants herself squarely between the man and Beth, chin tilted up, eyes narrowed to dark, furious slits.

“Is there a problem here?” Her voice is low and deceptively calm—an ice-laced warning that makes the words feel like a dare. The man barrels on, unaware—or perhaps too arrogant to care—blustering about respect and service and who he thinks he is.

“I don’t give a shit,” she cuts in, sharp and cold, her lip curling in contempt. “No one talks to my staff like that. You can leave now… before I make you.” Her words drip venom, but her stance is steady, daring. The man falters. For all his height and bluster, he reads the room—reads her—and finds no wiggle room to stand in. He storms off, slamming the door behind him.

The shop has gone still, every eye on her, but Poppy barely notices. Her expression softens by degrees as she turns to Beth, placing a hand on her arm with surprising gentleness.

“Take your break early, kid.”

Beth nods, eyes glossy, and disappears into the back.

Poppy returns to the register, unfazed, brushing a lock of inky hair behind one ear. She opens her mouth to greet the next customer, only to pause when she sees who’s standing across the counter: CraveU user.

Her dark lips curl upward, just shy of a real smile, and something in her gaze glints like she’s about to pull a trick.

“Well, well,” she drawls, voice like velvet and smoke. “Look who’s darkening my doorstep.”