New York. Weekend. Morning.
The sky was a pale, grayish blue—like shards of old porcelain washed clean. A few gray pigeons strolled along a park bench, then suddenly took flight, scattering into the crisp air.
A thin layer of ice had formed on the surface of the lake in Central Park, reflecting the rising sun and shimmering with a soft, pearly luster. The bare tree trunks pointed tenaciously toward the sky, like silent brushstrokes drawn by the earth itself.
In a quiet apartment in the Bronx, Damian was writing calligraphy on red paper spread across the living room table.
Ding-dong—!
He'd just set down his brush with satisfaction when the doorbell rang—an inopportune interruption.
"Who is it? Wait a minute, I'll be right there!"
The moment Damian opened the door, he found Peter Parker standing in the hallway, bundled in a thick black down jacket, looking like a penguin trying to sell overpriced mobile game credits.
"Peter?" Damian deadpanned. "It's so cold out that you'd need a hand warmer just to dry your hands after… well, anything. What are you doing here this early?"
Peter barged in without ceremony, snow melting from his boots into a puddle on the entryway tiles. He shivered violently. "It's the weekend, and it's freezing! 'Angel's Gift' is gonna be packed tonight. There's only Diluc and Miss Fischl running the place—they won't be able to handle the rush alone. We've gotta help!"
Damian closed the door with a sigh. "I'm busy today. I've got stuff to take care of at home."
He gestured toward the red paper on the table.
Peter leaned in for a closer look.
The first line read:
"Standing on both banks of the Yellow River, holding confidential documents in hand."
The second:
"Machine guns firing ahead, artillery roaring behind."
Horizontal scroll:
"Awesome!"
Peter stared at the bold, square characters, brow furrowed. After a long pause, he asked:
"Uh… what is this?"
Damian gave him a look that said, "Your facial complexity does nothing to mask your intellectual deficiency," and replied flatly:
"It's a Spring Festival couplet. We hang these on doors for Chinese New Year—kind of like how you drag a tree into your living room for Christmas."
Peter blinked. "But it's only early December! Christmas is still weeks away, and your Lunar New Year is months off! Why are you practicing now?"
Damian immediately narrowed his eyes, offended. "I was going to wait until closer to the holiday—but since you showed up, I'll use this as my excuse not to go out!"
He paused, then added with a smirk, "Judging by your face… are you moved by my honesty?"
Peter's expression twisted into something that resembled a vengeful ghost wronged by bureaucratic red tape.
Damian's grin widened.
Just as Peter looked ready to strangle him for the greater good of humanity, he threw up his hands.
"Fine, fine! I'll go with you. But—just us? Anyone else coming?"
Peter thought for a second. "Gwen and Jessica are coming too. Harry's been MIA lately—seems swamped with… stuff."
At the mention of Jessica Campbell, Peter's face instantly contorted in existential dread.
Most people either play hard or study hard. Jessica did both—with the intensity of a caffeinated squirrel on a deadline.
Of course, Peter bore some blame.
After all, he'd once declared, with unshakable sincerity:
"How could anyone not learn AP Chemistry?"
To Damian, that line echoed a certain engineering cybernetics professor's infamous remark:
"Even if someone isn't very bright, surely they can learn calculus by age fourteen."
Geniuses, Damian mused, truly had no idea how profoundly stupid a person could be.
Shaking off the thought, Damian asked, "So… how's Jessica's studying going? She must've improved by now, right?"
Peter's smile turned rigid. "Oh, great. She didn't know how to ride a bike at first—but now? She'll stand up while pedaling downhill."
Damian blinked. "…You mean she's learning to ride a bicycle?"
Peter gave him a flat look. "What did you think we were talking about? Schoolwork?"
---
Jingle—
The bell above the tavern door chimed as Damian and Peter pushed inside, bundled like arctic explorers.
Diluc stood on a ladder, polishing the crystal chandelier. He wore a black shirt and apron, his wine-red hair tied back in a loose tail.
Behind the bar, Fischl arranged glassware, her twin ponytails swaying with each movement. A few droplets of foam clung to the lace trim of her uniform.
Perched on a stool beside her, Oz munched slowly on a fry.
Damian shut the door and exhaled in relief. "Phew—I'm alive again!"
Fischl tossed her hair with regal flair. "Our meeting in this mortal realm is but a thread of fate woven within the Pure Land of the Evernight. Gratitude is unnecessary!"
Oz, now settled on her shoulder with a fry in claw, added politely:
"What Miss Fischl means is: 'It is a pleasure to see you both, gentlemen.'"
"Good morning, Miss Fischl!"
"Hello, little Oz!"
Diluc descended the ladder, brushing dust from his apron. "The bar isn't even open yet," he said, arms crossed, expression skeptical. "If you're here just to drink, turn around now."
Peter yanked off his wool hat, static making his hair stick straight up like dandelion fluff. "No, no! We're not here for drinks. It's freezing out—we figured you'd get swamped with people wanting hot drinks tonight. Thought we could lend a hand."
Damian unzipped his down jacket, revealing a charcoal turtleneck underneath. He rolled up his sleeves. "Skip the formalities. What do you need us to do?"
He nodded toward the street. "Gwen and Jessica will be here soon. If it's alright with you, the four of us can help supervise while you two work. I don't mind."
Diluc pinched the bridge of his nose, then relented with a grunt. "Tch. Fine. Z—check the beverage inventory. Peter—you clean the glassware. If things look good, let's get started."
With that, everyone set to work:
Damian tallied liquor stock, jotting notes in a small ledger;
Peter meticulously polished each glass;
Fischl h
ummed a tune as she laid out cutlery;
and Oz, with surprising dexterity, sorted receipts using his tiny paws.
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL to gain access to 40+ chapters