Jingle jingle~

The wind chime at the door rang again. It must be Baiyu and the club president arriving.

“Welcome… eh?”

The well-trained waitress let out a startled gasp.

What’s going on?

I sipped the free soda, glancing up at the entrance…

“Pfft!”

Soda sprayed from my mouth. Rude, but I couldn’t help it.

The scene was wild. Over a dozen burly men stormed in, each over six feet tall. They wore identical black suits and huge sunglasses hiding half their faces. Every one looked vicious. It wouldn’t surprise anyone if they pulled Gatling guns next, shouting, “Nobody move! This is a robbery!”

What the hell? A gangster dinner party?

The bald leader scanned the restaurant. “Only these seats available?” he asked the waitress.

“U-upstairs… there are private rooms,” she stammered.

He gestured behind him. His men sprang into action. Some sat at empty tables. Others headed upstairs.

“Sir, private rooms need reservations!” the waitress pleaded anxiously.

He waved her silent, pulled out his phone, and made a quick call.

He handed the phone to her. She checked the number and took it immediately.

“Boss… yes… I see… okay, understood.”

Her attitude flipped completely. She stopped blocking them and called colleagues to escort the men warmly upstairs.

The suited men in the hall shed their jackets. Underneath were casual tees—ordinary customers, apparently.

Yeah, right! The whole place was packed with muscleheads. Felt like a beefcake gay mecca!

To my shock, the bald leader walked straight to my table.

He loomed over me, his massive frame blocking the dim light. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. My heart hammered.

“Kid, switch seats? I’ll treat you as apology,” he rumbled. His voice suited “Where’s your protection money?” better.

I swallowed hard. “Um… I want to eat here. Is that not allowed?”

“Not impossible…” He paused. “Can I sit here instead?”

“Uh… s-sure.”

I wanted to ask why empty seats were everywhere. But I lacked the guts. I just nodded.

He didn’t sit opposite. He pulled a chair beside me—this spot watched the whole hall. Opposite faced only a wall.

The waitress arrived with my spaghetti and orange juice. She set a soda beside the bald man.

Eating next to a mob-boss lookalike tested my nerves. My fork hand trembled. I forced a few noodles down. Tasty, but like chewing wax now.

I stole a glance. He sat rigid as a statue. Others had ditched suits. He kept his funeral-black jacket on.

Silence thickened. A storm-felt tension hung heavy. I braced for him to smash his glass—a signal for Gatling guns to spray the room.

Other customers fled the pressure. One by one, they left.

What now? I just want to go home…