SB23's Livestream: Flirty Saturday!
Timestamp: 23 minutes 45 seconds in
Chat:
[***]Anyone know why he's silent?
[***]Is my stream broken?
[***]Hel-looooooo??!!
[***]Can anyone see my message?
Reply: Yep, we see it
Reply: Yup
Reply: It's a problem on his end
Donation ($5): Okay, not a lot of viewers, but to just sit there…wow
Reply: ahahahaha
Reply: lmao
Reply: www
Reply: WWWWww
Reply: Kkkk
[***]How long has he been like this?
[***]Heeeyyyy
[***]Is this like, a warm-up?
Reply: yep, messages are going through
[***]Damn, he's attractive even just sitting still!!!!!
[***]????
[***]Hahaha, he's so cute rn
[***]Never seen him like this, so soft and dreamy
[***]Eeeeeh
[***]Is he having a heart attack?
[***]Can anyone see my message??
Reply: are you dumb?
Reply: what heart attack?!
Reply: you just said that and now I'm freaked out
[***]Mods, call an ambulance
Reply: Oh god, you're scaring me
Donation ($30): babyyyy
For twenty minutes, the guy on the screen remained motionless. He seemed frozen in time. He gazed forward, directly at the camera lens, wearing a peculiar, almost exaggerated smile—unusually still, yet somehow… profoundly authentic.
Rava, better known as SB23, had, in fact, been late for his stream. He'd burst through his front door, thrown off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and hit "Go Live" without bothering to adjust the lighting, organize his background, or even verify the camera angle. None of it was set up.
And honestly, he just didn't care.
He probably wouldn't have gone live at all, had it not been for a barrage of messages from the mods—and then that one message from someone he hadn't expected to hear from. Someone he'd managed to get out of his mind for a bit.
But his thoughts weren't focused on them anymore.
They were now on him.
That message… it was a hint, wasn't it? "He's into me too… isn't he?"
Rava was totally overwhelmed by it all; he was sitting there, staring vacantly at the screen, not actually registering the chat or his audience—just him.
His eyes. His voice. His hands.
That dazzling smile. Those bright, maddening eyes.
A blush crept up Rava's neck and spread across his cheeks.
His whole body felt like it was burning, too hot all over. His everyday clothes suddenly felt constricting, like armour, too tight, too real.
"Phew… I'm just gonna open a window, sorry," he finally exhaled—his first words in nearly half an hour.
The chat exploded.
They hadn't been anticipating that.
Usually, if Rava was feeling hot during a stream, he'd start teasing—slowly unzipping a hoodie, dropping suggestive jokes, and playing it up.
But this? Silent. Brief. Almost shy.
He stood up, walked over to the window, and pushed it open.
Cool autumn air rushed in, and it blew past him, bringing clarity to his thoughts. He went back to his setup, switched on the soft violet lighting he always uses, and sat back down.
His fingers pushed back his long, dark hair, which now shimmered subtly under the glow. It gave him a... cinematic vibe.
The chat fell quiet.
So did the mods.
No one knew what to say.
Something unusual was occurring on stream—something raw, unfamiliar… too genuine.
Donations completely stopped.
Now there were only confused emoji, strings of question marks, and the smallest hint of… concern.
"Ah… right," Rava mumbled, trying to shake off the fog.
"What was the concept for today, again?"
He stepped out of frame, went over to the coffee table, grabbed his tablet, and opened his chat with the organizer. A file from yesterday was displayed.
"Okay…" he murmured to himself, repeating the word for a third time.
"Not…"
Chat:
[***] Not what?!
[***] Come on, NOT WHAT
[***] STOP IT WITH THE PAUSING WE'RE LOSING IT
Rava sat back down, his eyes searching the camera for something he couldn't quite pinpoint. Then, softly—almost a whisper—he said:
"You know… I'm really not in the mood for anything flirty today.
Maybe we could just… talk?"
Chat:
[***]??????????
Iris, Ivi, and Rava were crammed inside what the manager vaguely termed his "office," a small, makeshift space carved out of the storeroom with rough plywood walls. The atmosphere was thick, oppressive, pressing against their chests like a physical weight. All three had their gazes fixed on the floor, as though studying the cracked concrete for a secret exit.
"Swift, I'm asking again! what in God's name were you doing all night?!" The manager's voice, initially controlled, started to rise in both tone and intensity. "Five customers demanded refunds and threatened to report us! Five, Rava!"
Silence.
The only sound came from Rava's chair, creaking faintly, reminding everyone of his presence. He swallowed, but remained mute. What was there to say? That he'd added syrup instead of milk because his thoughts were occupied with another person's hands? That his mind had been far, far away from the café?
"Perhaps I've been too lenient…" the manager sighed, attempting to regain his composure. He pulled his shirt, untucked, back into his trousers, a gesture of practiced frustration. "Girls, honestly, where were you during the lunch rush?"
"Ivi asked me for help," Iris whispered, barely audible, her fingers interwoven so tightly they were almost white.
"Help?!" he barked, his voice escalating into a full shout.
He immediately looked away – almost startled by his own outburst – and turned to the rain-streaked window, suddenly subdued.
Sundays were always slow. Office districts emptied, becoming like ghost towns, and Bloom – positioned at the intersection of business and central – wasn't spared. Especially not on a rainy day like today.
The clientele was sparse, and yet Rava managed to blunder every order:
1. A lactose-free latte transformed into an Americano, adorned with chocolate shavings.
2. A strawberry smoothie was presented as ice cream and jam, served in a paper cup.
3. A gluten-free breakfast materialized as a cheese croissant.
"I'll be deducting the losses from your wages," the owner stated flatly, like he was delivering a contractual agreement, not a punishment.
"But boss!" Ivi protested. "It was Rava's mistake, not ours!"
"Consider it a lesson for you all," he interrupted her. The matter was settled.
They nodded in unison, akin to convicts receiving their sentence, and departed the "office." They looked defeated, like people caught in a downpour without any protection.
The moment they entered the front area, the café door chimed, and in walked Blaine, utterly soaked in a drenched trench coat.
"Lucky you," Iris muttered through clenched teeth. "Had you been here twenty minutes sooner, you'd be getting it too."
Blaine, perplexed, raised an eyebrow. He took off his coat, hung it near the door, and sauntered over. He gave each girl a brief hug and shook Rava's hand. That casual, brief contact was enough to set Rava's ears on fire.
"Is the boss in a Sunday slump?" Blaine quipped.
Nobody laughed.
He smirked, heading towards the back.
"Right, I'll get started on sandwiches before someone gets another dressing-down – including me."
Iris and Ivi watched him go. As he vanished behind the divider, they both pivoted towards Rava in unison.
"So? Anything you want to tell us?" Ivi asked, feigning innocence.
"Don't press it," Iris snapped, her gaze fixed on Rava.
He finally looked up. His mouth twitched, trying to form a smile – but it came out crooked.
He didn't want to share.
"Right…" he exhaled, walking past the girls and throwing over his shoulder, "Let's get going. If we hope to survive Monday, we've got to start with Sunday."
Ding…
The bell above the door rang — a familiar, harmless sound on any other day — but now it cut through the café like a gunshot.
Everyone turned.
Rava too — though it took him a second longer, as if he wasn't fully present. His gaze was distant, unfocused — like someone woken abruptly from a dream.
But then, in the next heartbeat…
His eyes widened.
The cup in his hands slipped through his fingers and smashed on the tiled floor. The crash shattered the stillness — and snapped him back into reality.
He felt something tear loose inside his chest.
His limbs began to tremble — fingers, shoulders, knees — he was shaking like a violin string stretched too tight.
His mind went blank.
A woman in black.
Tailored suit. Towering heels. And a face like a scalpel — sleek, sharp, emotionless.
At first, she merely scanned the café, as if mentally judging the décor. It looked like she might turn around and leave in disdain...
But then her gaze stopped.
On him.
And in that moment, Rava knew. They'd found him.
Again.
Not even a month had passed. He had truly believed he was safe. That he'd vanished in the crowd of a strange city. That it was all over.
But no.
No. No. NO.
They're here. He's here again, his mind screamed, barely holding back the rising panic.
The woman strode forward, each step a strike against his spine.
Her heels echoed like sentencing in a courtroom.
"Mr Swift," she said, finally. Her voice was smooth as ice - and just as cutting.
She stopped in front of him, looking down, not like he was a person. More like an asset. A liability. Something to be retrieved.
He didn't reply. He took a step back, pressing against the counter behind him, as if grounding himself would stop the freefall. The air thinned. He exhaled, but even that breath felt like betrayal.
"Mr. Aven has returned from his business trip," she continued, unblinking.
"And he would like a word."