After a long, grueling day of shopping, the time had finally arrived.
Hyouka dawned a beautiful, old, lavender, floor-length dress—draped like it had secrets and opinions. She wore jewelry she never could've imagined touching, let alone owning. Her hair was swept into an elegant, deliberately messy bun—the kind currently terrorizing trend cycles everywhere.
She was elegance.
She was demure.
She was cutesy.
She was mindful.
She was beautiful.
And we had Tuesday to thank for that.
The woman was on a mission and spared no effort making Hyouka the most beautiful person in the entire world… well. Second most.
Tuesday, don't come for me.
Anyhow—Tuesday shopped like a woman possessed. High on caffeine, spite, and a personal vendetta against mediocrity.
And once Hyouka was fully dressed, she was—of course—very proud of herself. As she damn well should be.
So Hyouka rolled up to the Michelin restaurant and stepped out of the car elegantly.
At least, in Hyouka's version of elegant. It was a little quirky. A little stiff. But elegant nonetheless.
What she didn't know was that Foca, Luca, and Tuesday were already inside the restaurant. Lurking. Observing. "Just in case," they said.
Mostly, they wanted front-row seats.
When Hyouka spotted her target, her eyes narrowed. She flicked her hair back confidently—except her hair was in a bun, so she flicked absolutely nothing but vibes. Still, it worked. Confidence is mostly imagination anyway.
She approached, making sure her presence announced itself.
"Mr. Maxim Dickinson?" Hyouka called out, loud enough that people at the bar—who were very, very far from her—heard it.
Maxim shot to his feet like he'd just heard his dead grandmother call his name the exact way she used to right before an ass-whooping.
He turned toward Hyouka and froze, visibly taken aback. She looked extra dainty with her petite stature—sweet, delicate, and absolutely not someone you should underestimate.
"Greetings! My name is Hyouka," she said brightly. "I've been sent by Miss Tuesday as her proxy. Unfortunately, something important came up and she couldn't attend tonight. She sends her apologies—and her regards."
She offered her hand with the biggest, most polite smile she could summon.
"N-no, please—do tell her I don't mind at all," Maxim stammered, taking her hand and shaking it far too slowly. His sleazy eyes dragged over her body, lingering way too long at her ample bosom.
He drooled a little.
Disgusting. I know.
Hyouka's skin crawled as she felt his gaze, but she swallowed it down, smooth as silk. No cover blown today, satan.
Instead, she let her hand do the talking.
She tightened her grip.
Hard.
Maxim yelped like a kicked dog and immediately released her, clutching his hand in pain.
Hyouka's smile never wavered.
Mission. On.
"Here is the final draft of the contract we're offering your company for the partnership. Kindly read through it—I'll be right back. I just need to pop into the little ladies' room."
She smiled. Sweet. Innocent. Weaponized.
Hyouka didn't even give Maxim the time or day to respond before she zoomed off—decidedly not toward the ladies' room.
She went to the bar. Obviously.
"Hi! What can we get for you?" the bartender asked, all polite and unsuspecting.
"Hi! Can I get your bubbl-iest champagne, please?" Hyouka said. Then, after a beat, "Actually—two."
She slid a black card across the counter like she'd been practicing for this moment her entire life.
Inside, she was screaming. Jumping. Cartwheeling. This had been on her bucket list forever.
"Right away," the bartender smiled, tapping away at the register before returning the card.
A minute later, he came back with two champagne flutes, sparkling like liquid sin.
"Goût de Diamants 2013," he announced.
"Oui oui! Merci beaucoup, monsieur!" Hyouka replied—suddenly, aggressively French—throwing in a wink for flavor.
Internally? She was losing her absolute shit. Another bucket list item: crossed off.
"N-no problem," the bartender stuttered, giving her a look like he wasn't entirely sure what dimension he was in anymore. Hyouka, blissfully oblivious, noticed nothing.
As soon as the glasses were in her hands, she slipped out a tiny glass vial filled to the brim with laxatives.
She meant to pour a little.
She poured… a lot.
She paused. Stared at it. Shrugged.
"Well. We're committed now."
She dumped the rest in.
Taking both glasses, she gave the bartender another wink before gliding back toward Maxim's table like she hadn't just committed a crime against God and digestion.
The bartender watched her go, deeply unsettled, with the unmistakable feeling that he'd just witnessed the opening act of a felony. Still, he chose peace. Rich people business was above his pay grade.
Elsewhere—hidden in a discreet corner of the restaurant—Foca, Luca, and Tuesday were absolutely losing it.
"What the fuck was that?!" Luca wheezed, laughing so hard he nearly cried.
"She ma baby," Tuesday said proudly, chest out. "That's ma girl."
Returning to the table, Hyouka gracefully slid one of the champagne flutes toward Maxim—the one lovingly infused with laxatives—before taking her seat across from him.
"So," she asked sweetly, folding her hands, "what do you think of our offer?"
"What the hell is this? Are you fucking joking?" Maxim snapped, slamming the folder shut and practically throwing it back at her.
"Oh no he didn't—" Tuesday started, already halfway out of her seat, but Foca caught her arm.
"Wait," he murmured, eyes glued to Hyouka. "Let's see where this goes."
Hyouka didn't look surprised.
She was pissed—but she wore it like perfume. Invisible. Controlled.
"Sir," she said calmly, "may I ask what seems to be the problem?"
"The first clause alone!" Maxim roared. "Are you fucking kidding me? I worked my ass off on this project, and you want to hand it over to someone else after the contract is signed? Are you fucking kidding me?!"
Heads were turning now. Dinner had become theater.
"Sir," Hyouka replied evenly, "did you not read the entire contract?"
"Do I even have to?!" he howled. "When all you're doing is trying to scam me into the ground?!"
"I could've sworn," Hyouka said thoughtfully, tilting her head, "that I kindly asked you to read everything in the folder."
She paused.
"You are the reason instructions come with pictures."
Deadpan. Surgical. No mercy.
Maxim blinked, visibly taken aback. He hadn't expected that from the petite woman sitting across from him.
"It's clearly stated in the contract," Hyouka continued, gesturing dramatically, "that you'll be transferred to a far more high-profile project Bread Music is developing—in collaboration with your company."
"The fuck—?" Maxim snatched the folder back and started reading, flipping pages like his life depended on it.
When he finished, his expression softened. Embarrassment crept in. Relief followed.
"Well," he muttered, "why didn't you start with that?"
Hyouka smiled. Polite. Razor-sharp.
"Pardon me, sir, but I did ask you—quite clearly—to read the contract thoroughly, did I not?" she said sweetly. "So why didn't you? Instead, you chose to complain like a child—over your own self-inflicted stupidity."
Her smile widened.
"But I can see you're very committed to your level of understanding. Which isn't much. Please don't let my intelligence interfere with your two remaining brain cells attempting to process simple instructions."
She leaned back slightly.
"I truly admire your courage to speak so confidently in the absence of knowledge. I envy anyone who hasn't had the displeasure of meeting you."
Still smiling. Still sweet.
"The fuck?!" Maxim barked, smoke practically pouring out of his ears. "Are you fucking insulting me?!"
"Oh—were you insulted?" Hyouka asked softly. "My apologies, if that happens to be the case. I was merely stating facts. It never occurred to me that facts alone could be taken as an insult."
She tilted her head, thoughtful. Curious. Dangerous.
"You've truly mastered the tone of authority," she continued, "without the inconvenience of depth. It's fascinating—what you've done with your education. Little as it may be."
Her smile didn't waver.
"Which does make me wonder, as an outsider—what are your views on intelligence? Because I can absolutely explain your ever-burning questions… but I can't understand them for you."
She clasped her hands neatly on the table.
"What do you say? Would you like me to proceed?"
Merciless. Jab after jab. No survivors.
By now, Maxim had become the evening's entertainment. Onlookers and eavesdroppers were doubled over, shoulders shaking, hands clapped over mouths as they fought not to laugh out loud.
Tuesday and Luca, however, had fully given up on dignity.
"I might need to call the cops," Luca wheezed. "Because I just witnessed a murder."
"Oh no she didn't!" Tuesday howled. "GURL—she making me proud right now! That's fo sho! She better get a bonus after this!"
Even Foca couldn't help it—he laughed openly, watching Maxim sit there, stunned and speechless, as his own secretary verbally buried him six feet under.
That was when Maxim shot up from his chair.
"You—call someone higher than you right now!" he barked. "I don't care who they are. I want you fired!"
"Sir," Hyouka replied, painfully polite, "if my superiors were available, they would be the ones speaking to you. Not me."
"I don't care!" Maxim snarled. "You call them now, or I burn your fucking company to the ground!"
Hyouka blinked.
Unimpressed.
"Oh," she said calmly. "You'd like to meet my superior?"
She stood and extended both hands toward him, palms up.
"Very well. Please—hold my hand."
Maxim froze.
When he didn't move, Hyouka raised an eyebrow, tilting her head in silent question—gesturing again for him to take her hands.
Her look said it all: You're the one who demanded this. Now hold my hand, bitch. We don't have all day.
Swallowing hard, Maxim hesitantly reached out.
The moment his hand touched hers, Hyouka's fingers snapped shut like a Venus flytrap—tight, unyielding. He couldn't pull away.
She closed her eyes.
"Heavenly Father," she said serenely, "I come to you today, as this man before me seeks my superior. And no one is more superior than You, Lord."
The restaurant went dead silent.
"So I pray that you either guide him… or take him. Let Your will be done."
A pause.
"In Jesus' name. Amen."
She released his hand.
"There," Hyouka said sweetly, returning to her seat. "You've now met my superior. I hope you have a very productive conversation with Him—once He speaks with you."
She smiled.
Maxim scoffed, disbelief dripping from his lips.
Then—like the absolute idiot he was—he lifted the champagne and downed it in one go.
Hyouka's eyes glinted.
Victory.
The restaurant lost it. Laughter erupted, no longer contained, no longer polite. This was better than any telenovela. Better than any Webflix series. This was live, this was raw, this was art.
Luca and Tuesday were on the floor, rolling and clutching their stomachs. Foca had actual tears streaming down his face, wheezing like a man fighting for his life.
Maxim slammed the empty champagne flute onto the ground, shattering it. He opened his mouth, ready to finally unload on Hyouka—when a familiar sound caught his attention.
A voice.
He froze.
Hyouka was calmly watching something on her limited-edition Marshmello smartphone, unfolded, full screen, crisp as hell in glorious 12K.
She glanced up at him.
"Sir," she said gently, "you may want to sign the contract—if you want your wife to have her vacation money."
She turned the screen toward him.
A livestream. His wife. Gushing. Smiling. Talking excitedly about how her husband was just finishing the deal.
"Fuck," Maxim spat, genuine frustration cracking through him.
He knew what waited for him if he came home empty-handed—especially the bitch of a wife's parents. Leeches. Snakes. Bleeding him dry at every opportunity.
Grinding his teeth, he reached for the contract—
—and dropped it.
His stomach twisted violently.
He doubled over, clutching himself as realization hit.
Oh no.
Seeing the laxatives finally clock in, Hyouka couldn't help it. A wicked grin spread across her face.
Maxim bolted for the bathroom.
Too late.
Mid-run, his body betrayed him.
It happened right there.
The stink bomb was unleashed.
Diners gagged. Hands flew to noses. Chairs scraped back in horror.
Hyouka watched in pure, unfiltered triumph.
She raised a hand, summoning a waiter, who approached cautiously—like a man stepping into a war zone.
"I'm ready to order," Hyouka said sweetly.
"J-just you?" the waiter asked, voice shaking.
"Mhm. Unfortunately," she sighed, "you can't really find a decent guy these days."
Behind her, Maxim abandoned all hope of dignity and fled the restaurant entirely, choosing public exile over the walk of shame.
His car, however, would not survive.
The smell permeated everything.
"I'll have a steak, please," Hyouka said pleasantly.
"Certainly. How would you like it cooked?" the waiter asked.
"Oh," Hyouka said confidently, "I'd like it congratulations, please."
The waiter blinked. "C-congratulations? Do you mean… well done?"
Hyouka's eyes widened. "Wait—is that what it's called?"
A beat.
"Yes. Well done it shall be," she said, immediately doubling down, slipping into a Bridgerton-worthy accent to mask the embarrassment.
And so the night ended with Hyouka happily crossing off another bucket-list item:
Eating steak at a bougie restaurant.
Foca, Luca, and Tuesday were utterly fed—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
And everyone lived happily ever after.
Well.
At least for that day.