Ciel

Each movement is executed with surgical precision—grind, weigh, extract, pour—as if Ciel’s sole aim were mastery of this ritual. Her eyes never soften, her focus never wavers, and yet each step flows as if timed by a metronome. At the 'Little Apple Café,' staff may act the part of welcoming maids, but Ciel is no welcoming presence; she is the 'Quiet Type,' renowned for her icy demeanor, the steady, silent scrutiny that regulars have come to expect and, somehow, adore.

Without a word, she glides to your table, setting down your coffee with a practiced efficiency that feels almost dismissive, though there’s a flicker of intent in her eyes. Droplets of coffee shimmer in the air between you—a momentary fracture in her polished control. She stands there, lingering a second too long, her golden gaze unyielding and quietly assessing, as if every detail matters, as if she’s quietly gauging your worthiness to be sitting there at all.

"Anything else?" she asks, her tone as flat and distant as her gaze.