If there were a hell specifically designed for broke college students, it would probably look a lot like Crème de Maison, a bistro that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a casual brunch spot or a pretentious fine-dining establishment. Sam Carter, wearing an apron that had seen better days and a name tag that read “Sam (Ask Me About Our Specials!)”, stood by table seven, mentally preparing to shatter yet another piece of their soul.

“And for you, ma’am?” they asked, forcing their mouth into what they hoped resembled a smile and not the facial equivalent of a hostage note.

The woman, dressed in yoga pants that cost more than Sam’s bike, tilted her head. “Can I get the avocado toast, but, like, with no avocado? And instead of toast, can it be gluten-free? And also… not bread?”

Sam blinked. Their brain stalled like an ancient computer trying to load a high-res image. “So… you want... nothing?”

The woman frowned. “No. I want the experience of avocado toast. But not the calories.”

Sam nodded sagely. “Of course. Coming right up. I’ll ask the chef to, uh, vibe it onto the plate for you.”

The woman seemed satisfied, which was impressive considering she had ordered what could only be described as a concept. Sam scribbled something illegible on their notepad and turned away, narrowly dodging an incoming tray carried by Jennie, their coworker and the only other person in this establishment who seemed to have a functioning sense of humor.

Jennie arched an eyebrow as they passed. “Another existential order?”

“She wants the spirit of toast,” Sam replied grimly.

Jennie snorted. “Cool. Let me know when you figure out what that is so we can start charging extra for it.”

Sam wove their way back to the kitchen, where the air was thick with the smells of burnt bacon, sizzling butter, and dreams being crushed under minimum wage. The head chef, Marco, was mid-rant about something—probably an imagined slight from a Yelp review—while aggressively whisking a bowl of eggs.

Sam slid the order onto the counter. “Table seven wants the avocado toast, but hold the avocado, hold the toast, and just, like… summon the vibe of it.”

Marco froze mid-whisk, staring at Sam like they had just suggested serving napalm. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m one bad tip away from walking out of here,” Sam muttered, leaning against the counter. They glanced up at the clock and groaned. Only two hours into their shift, and it already felt like time had slowed to a crawl just to mock them. They reached into their pocket, pulled out a crumpled receipt, and began mentally drafting their resignation letter. Dear Crème de Maison, it’s not me, it’s you. Also, your clientele is insane.

“Order up!” Marco barked, slamming a plate onto the counter with the finesse of a brick. Sam grabbed it and headed back into the dining room, where chaos was brewing at table nine.

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“Excuse me!” a man in a suit snapped, waving Sam over with the frantic energy of someone whose world was ending. “There’s a hair in my quiche!”

Sam peered at the offending dish. The “hair” in question was a rosemary sprig, artfully placed for garnish.

“That’s… an herb,” Sam said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dim child.

The man’s face reddened. “I know what a hair looks like!”

Sam resisted the urge to say, “Do you, though?” and instead flashed their customer service smile—the one that said I’m this close to screaming into the void. “I’ll let the chef know,” they said, snatching the plate and retreating to the kitchen.

“Marco!” Sam yelled as they burst through the door. “The rosemary’s offended someone’s delicate sensibilities again.”

Marco didn’t even look up. “Tell them to Google what a garnish is.”

“Great advice,” Sam muttered, dumping the plate on the counter. “Next time I’ll send them an article from Herbs Weekly.”

Back out on the floor, Jennie intercepted Sam with a smirk. “You’re in rare form today.”

“Oh, you know,” Sam replied, “just riding the high of serving artisanal misery. Can’t wait to put this on my résumé.”

Jennie laughed. “Hey, at least you’re making tips. That guy at table six left me a handful of change and a pamphlet on joining a cult.”

Sam snorted. “Better than the guy last week who tried to pay me in crypto.”

Before Jennie could reply, the bistro’s front door swung open, and Sam turned to see a man walk in wearing a full spandex suit. Bright green, with a logo shaped like a leaf. He scanned the room, hands on his hips in a pose that screamed, I have arrived.

Jennie leaned in. “What’s the over-under on that guy being a superhero?”

Sam stared at the newcomer, who had now produced a Segway from nowhere and was casually rolling toward the host stand. “I’m gonna say 100 percent.”

The host, a frazzled teenager named Kyle, blinked at the man. “Uh… can I help you?”

“I’m Leaflord,” the man announced loudly, as if that explained anything. “Protector of foliage. Defender of shrubs. Keeper of the sacred potted plant.”

Sam clutched their tray tightly. “Holy—he’s real,” they whispered. They had seen Leaflord trending on Twitter last week after he’d apparently rescued an entire community garden from gentrification. At the time, Sam had assumed it was some kind of joke. But here he was, in the spandex-clad, Segway-riding flesh.

Kyle looked like he wanted to cry. “Do you… want a table?”

“No,” Leaflord said, striking a dramatic pose. “I’m here to recruit.”

“For what?” Kyle asked weakly.

“For justice,” Leaflord replied.

At this point, Marco burst through the kitchen doors holding a spatula like a weapon. “What the hell is going on out here?”

Leaflord turned to him. “Ah, the keeper of the sacred fire!” he said, nodding approvingly at Marco’s grease-stained chef’s whites. “Your dedication to the culinary arts is admirable.”

“Thanks?” Marco said, clearly unsure if this was an insult or a compliment.

Sam, meanwhile, was fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. This was it. Peak absurdity. They had officially reached a point where nothing in their life made sense anymore.

And yet, as Leaflord scanned the room, his eyes landed on Sam, and something about his gaze made their stomach twist.

“You there,” he said, pointing dramatically. “You look like someone in need of purpose. Of destiny.”

Sam blinked. “Me?”

“Yes,” Leaflord said, rolling his Segway closer. “You have the aura of a sidekick.”

Jennie choked on her coffee. Marco muttered, “Is this guy for real?”

Sam stared at Leaflord, then at Jennie, then back at Leaflord. “I’m sorry,” they said slowly. “But are you… hiring?”

Leaflord nodded solemnly. “Indeed. And I pay in real money.”

For the first time all day, Sam felt a spark of hope. Sure, this guy seemed completely unhinged, but if he was paying better than Crème de Maison… well, how bad could it be?

“Where do I sign up?” Sam asked.