Worse Than Demon Lord

Old Futto's hands were sweating profusely, leaving damp patches on his jeans as he wiped them for the third time. 

His temple throbbed, beads of sweat trickling down despite the cool air inside the café. 

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, straightening it repeatedly like he was about to meet a date instead of him. 

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the pumpkin latte in front of him, its steam curling lazily in the air. 

He didn't even like pumpkin lattes, but it was the only thing that came out of his mouth when the barista asked for his order. His nerves had rendered his brain useless.

"But seriously… this kind of place?" he muttered under his breath, eyeing the cozy atmosphere and the clusters of girls giggling over their drinks. 

"Is this where the demon lord picks up his targets?"

He frowned. "Tch, he's not even that handsome."

The warmth of the latte seeped into his cold hands, offering a brief moment of comfort.