Viktor adjusted his scarf with a sigh that rattled like a coffin lid. His scarf was thick wool, wrapped three times about his neck, as if he were perpetually ready for an Arctic expedition instead of the morning rush at Bean There, Brewed That. His long sleeves were buttoned tightly to his wrists, every inch of pale skin concealed from the cruel spear-thrust of sunlight filtering through the café’s broad front windows.

The bell above the door chimed, and with it came the mob. Viktor braced himself.

“Good mornink!” he announced, voice rolling out in a baritone laced with Eastern European thunder. “Velcome to ze Bean. Vat may I… serve you?”

“Pumpkin spice latte, extra foam,” chirped a woman in yoga pants.

“Pumpkin… spice,” Viktor repeated slowly, as though the words were foreign and possibly cursed. He turned to the gleaming espresso machine—his eternal torment. Holy water hissed in its pipes, sanctified steam curling like incense. Every hiss sent a twinge of pain through his veins.

He pressed the button gingerly, wincing as droplets sizzled on his fingertips. “Ahh—yes, pumpkin spice. Very… autumnal.” He ground the words between his fangs, lips sealed tight lest they flash.

The next customer, a college student with earbuds dangling, approached without looking up. “Pumpkin spice cold brew.”

“Cold… pumpkin… brew.” Viktor forced a smile that showed no teeth. “Very vell. Nothing says ‘I am embracing ze harvest season’ like… iced gourd juice.” He hissed softly under his breath, “Vhy no one ever orders regular coffee, I vill never know…”

The student blinked. “What?”

“Nothing! Just ze machine. It hisses at me. Always hissing.”

Another customer stepped forward. “Do you have oat milk?”

Viktor’s eyebrow twitched. “I vill check… our crypt of dairy alternatives.” He bent dramatically, retrieving a carton as though from a tomb. “Yes, ve have ze milk of oats. Very exotic.”

The line grew. Pumpkin spice lattes, pumpkin spice mochas, pumpkin spice cappuccinos. One daring soul even asked for pumpkin spice chai. Viktor’s scarf began to feel like a noose. His accent thickened under the strain.

“Tell me,” he finally burst out, slamming a demitasse on the counter. “Vhy… vhy do you humans desire zis pumpkin spice so badly? Is it… enchantment? Some dark ritual of cinnamon und nutmeg? Must every drink be orange-colored?!”

The café went silent. Every eye turned toward him. Viktor coughed delicately, tugging his scarf tighter. “Ahem. Vat I mean is… thank you for supporting our seasonal offerings. Your loyalty is… delicious—ah, I mean… appreciated.”

The customers nodded, oblivious. The yoga-pants woman took her latte. “Wow, your accent is so authentic. Like, Transylvanian, right? Love it. Makes the pumpkin spice feel… classy.”

Viktor inclined his head, eyes smoldering. “Yes. Classy. Nothing more dignified than vhipped cream upon ze corpse of a squash.”

The bell chimed again. More mortals. More orders. Always pumpkin spice.

And Viktor, vampire of the Carpathians, lord of shadow and midnight, turned once more to the holy-water machine, muttering through clenched teeth:

“One day, Viktor. One day, you vill own ze night shift.”