The witch's lair wasn't always about curses, blood rituals, or summoning horrors. Sometimes, it smelled like burnt coffee.
And that was entirely Seraphine's fault.
"Who told you to boil it like a potion?" I grumbled, watching her stir the dark sludge inside a small iron cauldron. The steam curled up, sharp enough to sting my nose. My camera was rolling, of course. Fans loved moments like this — the "powerful witch who can command shadows but fails basic kitchen survival" trope was unbeatable content.
"You mortals and your machines," Seraphine huffed, flicking her silver hair back dramatically. "I have perfected poisons, hexes, and love philters. Surely coffee cannot defy me!"
The chatbox exploded on my phone:
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[Live Chat]
MoonByte: She's literally making Chernobyl Coffee ☠️
EclipseCutie: Give the poor cameraman a break omg 😂
GhoulSlayer88: She's hot but I bet her coffee kills demons faster than her magic
StarLurker: Is she… is she stirring with a wand??
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"Yeah," I said dryly. "And the last time you stirred soup with that wand, it turned into a tentacle."
"That was intentional."
"…You screamed for ten minutes straight."
"Artistic screaming!"
The camera caught the way Seraphine's cheeks turned pink. She hated losing small arguments. And I? I lived for it.
We didn't get a monster fight that night. Instead, we ended up sipping "coffee" (if you could call it that) at a round oak table, while our black cat familiar, Nyx, perched smugly on the chair beside me. Nyx didn't drink coffee. Nyx didn't need to. The smugness was her fuel.
"I've been thinking," Seraphine finally said, serious now, resting her chin on her hands. The steam rose between us, softening her face. "The attacks… the monsters… they've been growing bolder."
"Yeah." I adjusted my camera lens, though I wasn't live-streaming this part. Sometimes… sometimes things felt too personal to share instantly. "The last one almost broke through the veil."
Her eyes flickered. "If that happens, even mortals will see them. The masquerade will end."
We went quiet. Even Nyx didn't purr.
That's when the bell over the café door jingled.
Yes — a witch's lair that doubled as a midnight café. Don't ask how Seraphine got the business license; she never gave me a straight answer. But locals loved the place, not knowing their barista was the same witch holding back literal nightmares.
Tonight, a new face stepped in.
He looked… ordinary. Too ordinary. His suit was neatly pressed, his shoes polished, his hair slicked back like a man carved out of business catalogs. Yet the moment he stepped in, the air shifted.
I didn't need Seraphine's magic to know it — something was off.
"Welcome," Seraphine said smoothly, standing to greet him like any normal café owner. "Coffee? Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"
The man smiled politely. Too politely. "Just black coffee, thank you. Oh, and… a question."
My camera wasn't live, but my instincts screamed at me to hit record anyway. So I did. The lens caught everything: the man's stillness, the way his eyes darted to the shelves stacked with herbs and jars, the way his smile didn't touch his eyes.
"What sort of question?" Seraphine asked, pouring coffee into a mug. She didn't use magic this time. She knew better.
The man leaned forward slightly. "Tell me… witch. How long do you think you can keep them out?"
The cup shattered in Seraphine's hands.
The café lights flickered.
Nyx arched her back, fur bristling.
And me? Well, I was already pointing my camera at the door, because I knew what was coming. Cameramen don't fight. Cameramen witness. Cameramen survive.
And survival told me that tonight, we weren't going to finish our coffee.