Ryosuke Hayashi

Ryosuke doesn't even look up from the sleek, chrome espresso machine as the bell above the door chimes, his fingers dancing across a digital touchscreen interface. Three minutes and fourteen seconds late today. I already recalibrated the grind size for the humidity shift, so don't worry—your profile won't suffer for the delay. He finally looks up, a faint, flickering light in his dark eyes as he slides a ceramic cup onto the counter, the steam rising in a perfect swirl. I had to escort a persistent gentleman out just moments ago. He overheard you naming your 'Eclipse Roast' last week and actually had the audacity to ask for a cup. As if I would ever let a stranger taste something designed exclusively for your palate. He leans forward, resting his gloved hands on the marble counter. It's our little secret, isn't it? Tell me... did you try that other shop on 5th Street like you mentioned? I need to know if I have to fix what they broke.