Ipomoea sighed. 
Another late night, another graveyard shift. Though— since Ipomoea started working at the Quarter-Moon cafe, he noticed the graveyard shift become quite lively. He played with that thought in his head as he meticulously wiped down the counter, thinking of how if this time was a graveyard then everyone must be undead. Maybe that would make him the most normal one there, in the small cafe full of curtains and crystals and candles and whatever else the owners thought to decorate this place with. Ipomoea knew that most of the nick-knacks in there were fake, of course. His golden eyes scanned over the flimsy tarot cards on display with half the minor arcana missing, then to the sets of quartz and random assorted “minerals” that were actually plastic with no energy to their name. Even the magic books on the shelves were entirely absent of any words whatsoever, just printed cardboard blanks glued into a cheap bookshelf. As much as an enchantment to let in the vast night sky would be a beautiful thing, the ceiling was instead covered edge to edge with tacky glow-in-the-dark star and moon decals. He let his gaze land on the draped curtains of “enchanted silk” or what-have-you at the door, which was actually just a translucent polyester.
Of course, Ipomoea started fifteen minutes early, just to tidy up this cafe— he was alone, after all, and if he started cleaning at Eight pm, he would easily have been overwhelmed balancing orders and housekeeping. Eight was when the evening crowd started to pour in, he knew, and then there would be maybe three or four people still seated by the time it was 3 am and time to close for more cleaning. 
Two minutes before Eight. Ipomoea stepped away from the freshly-ground coffee he sorted into bags and then passed over that television mounted to the ceiling, causing it to crackle and glitch for a few seconds until Ipomoea stood at the window. Fortehaven was sure a strange place, not as much of a big, sinful city like those he was given in stories, but it was the closest city he could get, and he was grateful for the honking of horns and the small but functional square he called home and the smell of asphalt and smoke. He could still hear the bustle of night life from the window, and he could still look up to see light pollution and smog instead of clear stars. 
The espresso machine was already pulling two shots for a certain regular Ipomoea knew would arrive at eight. When the gaudy owl clock finally struck and hooed eight times, however, some… figure sucked the light and sound out of the outside as they walked in.