Alright.
ENOUGH.
Enough existential dread. Enough cosmic anomalies. Enough ghost falna spirals glowing like forbidden disco lights on my soul.
There were priorities in this world, and right now only three mattered:
FOOD. WARMTH. WOMEN WHO COULD KILL ME WITH A TRAY.
"WHERE IS THE—" I spun in place like a malfunctioning compass, pointing at random streets with the confidence of a man who had zero clue where he was going.
"HOSTESS OF FERTILITY!"
My soul screamed the name before my brain caught up. The syllables felt holy. Sacred. Like unlocking a fast-travel point in a game I'd been speedrunning my entire life.
Lyu Lion.
Syr Flova.
Anya Fromel.
Chloe Lolo.
Runoa Faust.
And most importantly—
"MAMAAAAA MIAAAAAAAAAA!"
A couple of pedestrians stopped dead. One guy literally crossed himself. A passing God nearby—actual god—snorted so hard he nearly choked on his wine.
I froze mid-spin.
"…Wait."
The adrenaline crashed like a sugar rush hitting bedtime.
Do I actually know the route?
I was a fan. A deep fan. I knew that tavern like scripture. The vibes. The trauma. The tables where hearts got broken and friendships got forged. I could describe the lighting, the menu, the exact emotional weight of every major scene that happened there.
But streets?
"…East Main?" I muttered weakly.
I turned left. Took three confident steps.
Stopped.
"No—west?"
Spun around. Pointed vaguely.
"Or was it a side street off West Main?"
My hands dropped to my sides.
"Oh, my gods."
I looked around at the very real streets of Orario—vendors yelling, adventurers walking past in blood-stained armor, Familia banners fluttering overhead. The city was alive. Breathing. Moving. Real.
I wasn't watching this anymore.
I was inside it.
And suddenly, anime geography betrayed me like a cruel ex.
"What kind of pathetic fan knows the trauma arcs but not the directions?!" I groaned, dragging both hands down my face.
A Level-who-know-what adventurer gave me a weird look as he passed. I ignored him. This was a crisis.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, took a breath, and forced my brain to switch modes.
Think.
The Hostess wasn't on Main Street itself. Too loud. Too obvious. Too commercial. It wasn't a tourist trap—it was a refuge. A place adventurers stumbled into after getting chewed up by the Dungeon, where they could bleed, drink, and pretend life wasn't trying to kill them for few minutes.
It had to be close to Main—but tucked away. Hidden enough that bar fights didn't spill into traffic. Warm enough that broken people felt safe.
A side street.
Stone walls.
Soft lantern light.
The smell of grilled meat and alcohol hanging in the air like a promise.
I lifted my head slowly.
"…That way."
I didn't know.
But my stomach did.
And somewhere down that street, I was about to either:
Get fed, get yelled at, or get suplexed by Mama Mia
Honestly?
Worth it.