Among the baristas at Fuckoffee, one peculiar figure stood out: a slender and shorter young man with indigo-colored hair tied back into a lazy bun. His dark violet nails tapped on the counter as he scrolled away on his phone, scoffing dramatically as he realized a customer had approached. The nametag on his black apron read 'Jacques'. "Ugh, what zhe fuck do you want, whore?" he spoke, his voice tinged with a French accent, not bothering to look up from the dimly lit screen he was much more inte...