After the stylish blonde woman stormed out, the rest of the afternoon followed the exact same agonizing script.
About ten more people drifted into the shop over the next few hours. The foot traffic on the street wasn't the problem; 73rd Street was as busy as ever, and the unusual sign got plenty of glances. The real killer was the exact moment the initial curiosity died.
People would walk in, their eyes wide as they took in the vibrant, swirling fruit displays. But the second Rosh started explaining what a Devil Fruit actually was and how it worked, the vibe in the room would plummet. It was like watching a balloon deflate in real-time.
By the time late afternoon rolled around, the bustling New York streets began to quiet down, and Rosh's remaining sliver of hope completely evaporated.
"Another day, another total zero," he groaned, letting his forehead slam onto the wooden counter with a dull, pathetic thud.
The burst of morning motivation he'd started with was long gone, replaced by a soul-crushing boredom. He pulled out his phone and absentmindedly scrolled through his social feeds, seriously debating whether he should just lock up early and save himself the ongoing disappointment.
Just as he was about to reach for his keys—
"Haa~llooooo~!"
An overly dramatic, drawn-out greeting suddenly exploded through the quiet shop. The unexpected voice startled Rosh so badly that his phone nearly slipped right out of his hands.
He snapped his head up, his customer-service smile ready to go, but the words caught instantly in his throat. Standing right in the doorway was a man wearing a full-face mask.
'...What the hell?'
A cold jolt of pure adrenaline shot straight down Rosh's spine. His brain didn't register the guy as a customer. It immediately screamed robber.
New York had its fair share of petty crime, and everyone knew convenience stores, gas stations, and local bodegas were prime targets for a quick stick-up. But a boutique fruit shop? Seriously? Who in their right mind tries to rob an artisanal produce store?
"Whoa, whoa, hands where you can see 'em! Chill out, dude," the masked man said quickly, throwing his hands up in a dramatic gesture of surrender. "I am not some bargain-bin criminal. Honestly, I find those guys totally offensive to the trade."
He sounded genuinely insulted by the accusation.
The man tapped the side of his mask with a gloved finger. "I'm only rocking the look because I just came from a cosplay carnival down the street. The theme was 'Psychotic Serial Killer.' Pretty neat, right?"
He threw his arms out wide, doing a little theatrical spin on the spot. "See? Totally unarmed. No hidden blades, no sketchy business."
Rosh narrowed his eyes, scanning the guy from head to toe. The man's hands were completely empty. There was no gun tucked into his waistband, no knife glinting in his pockets, nothing overtly dangerous that Rosh could see.
Slowly, Rosh let out the breath he'd been holding, his muscles untensing just a fraction. But his guard didn't drop completely. Something about this guy still felt incredibly off. If the cosplay festival was already over, why was he still walking around the city in a suffocating full-face mask?
More importantly, there was something else bothering Rosh.
The guy's voice.
It sounded familiar. In fact, it sounded insanely familiar.
Rosh frowned, his mind racing to connect the dots. He had only transmigrated into this universe about a month ago. Aside from a handful of passing strangers and a few unimpressed pedestrians, he literally didn't know a soul here. So why did this masked stranger's voice sound like someone he had heard a thousand times before?
The longer the man stood there, the stronger that gut feeling grew. Rosh was looking at someone he absolutely should recognize, but the memory was just out of reach. And honestly, that creeping mystery felt way more unsettling than the mask itself.
The masked man casually sauntered deeper into the shop, showing absolutely zero intention of taking off his face covering. He strolled along the rows of shelving like he owned the place, completely at ease.
"I was just passing by when I spotted your... highly unusual little storefront," he said, his voice muffled slightly by the fabric as he gestured toward the colorful displays. "I figured, hey, why not come in and take a look? So tell me, Shopkeeper, these 'Devil Fruits' on your sign... are they actually a real thing?"
Rosh's left eye gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. 'Seriously? Is this guy really going to keep the mask on during a full-on conversation?'
But instead of letting annoyance get the better of him, a tiny, bright spark of hope ignited in Rosh's chest. Think about it: any normal, rational New Yorker would have laughed in his face or walked out by now. If this guy was weird enough to walk around Manhattan in a full cosplay mask after the event was over, he might just be eccentric enough to actually buy something.
"That is absolutely correct, sir," Rosh replied smoothly, sliding right back into his polished salesman persona as naturally as breathing. "Every single fruit you see in this store is a 100% genuine Devil Fruit. And each one possesses a completely unique, mind-boggling ability."
"Wait, for real?"
The masked man actually stopped pacing, his tone shifting into genuine surprise. "And here I thought they were just funky hand-painted decorations or some kind of collectible vinyl toys for kids."
"Not at all, sir," Rosh said, his voice firm and grounded. "These are real, edible fruits intended for actual consumption. Once you eat one, it alters your genetic makeup to grant you incredible powers."
The moment those words left his mouth, Rosh instinctively braced himself. He practically waited for the impact.
This was the exact structural turning point where every single conversation today had derailed. This was where people laughed. This was where they called him a lunatic. This was where they muttered something about calling the cops and slipped out the door.
But instead of backing away, the masked man actually leaned in closer, his interest clearly piqued.
"Incredible powers, huh?" the man repeated, tilting his head. "You mean like mutant abilities? Like... X-Men kind of stuff?"
Rosh froze. Then, his heart practically skipped a beat against his ribs. 'Oh, my God! This guy might actually be crazy enough to buy into this!'
"Exactly, sir!"
For the first time all afternoon, a wave of genuine, unforced enthusiasm washed over Rosh's face. He immediately stepped toward the shelves, gesturing toward one of his top displays.
"Take this one, for example. It's known as the Slip-Slip Fruit, though some people prefer to call it the Smooth-Smooth Fruit. Now, you might be wondering why it has such a specific name—"
"Oh, I think I know," the masked man interrupted, snapping his fingers mid-air. A distinctly mischievous, cheeky grin crept into his tone. "Because it makes your mouth really, really slippery after you eat it. You know, like it's completely covered in— "
"Cough! Cough!"
Rosh nearly choked on his own saliva. His sudden, loud coughing fit cut the man's sentence off right at the knees before it could veer into territory that was definitely not PG-13.
Ignoring the bizarre interruption entirely, Rosh pressed forward with the fierce determination of a business owner desperate to protect his store's dignity.
"As I was saying," Rosh continued, shooting a pointed look at the mask, "it's called the Slip-Slip Fruit because it grants the user unbelievably smooth skin. It's a total physical overhaul."
He carefully picked up the pale, swirling fruit from the shelf and held it up between them for emphasis.
"The second you swallow it, your skin becomes so frictionless and smooth that ordinary dirt, dust, and environmental impurities literally cannot cling to you. They just slide right off."
Then, aiming for the ultimate sales pitch, Rosh added with total confidence: "You could say it makes your skin at least a hundred times smoother than a newborn baby's."
"Smooth skin, huh..."
The masked man tilted his head to the side, seemingly lost in thought. To Rosh's absolute amazement, the guy didn't look disappointed or bored at all. If anything, he seemed even more fascinated than before.
"That actually sounds pretty damn useful," the man murmured, his gaze totally locked onto the fruit in Rosh's hands. "Quick question, though. Would it work on... any kind of skin?"
Rosh blinked. 'Wow.' This conversation was going a million times better than he could have ever anticipated. Anyone else would have sprinted for the exit by now, but this guy was actually asking highly specific follow-up questions.
"Of course, sir!" Rosh answered immediately, seizing the golden opportunity before it could slip through his fingers. "Our products are one hundred percent authentic and guaranteed to perform exactly as advertised."
He puffed out his chest, radiating absolute, unshakable confidence.
"If a Devil Fruit fails to deliver the exact superpower I promised you..." Rosh paused, letting a dramatic, heavy silence fill the room. Then, with all the solemnity of a medieval knight swearing a blood oath to his king, he declared:
"May a hundred three-hundred-pound sumo wrestlers trample me directly into the pavement."
The shop fell entirely quiet. Even the masked man seemed momentarily stunned into silence by the sheer, unadulterated conviction behind that statement.
Rosh, however, didn't crack a smile. He remained perfectly serious. After all, when you haven't made a single cent in an entire month, you don't have the luxury of making half-hearted promises. You go big, or you go home.
The masked man actually took a physical step back, his shoulders twitching in a mix of surprise and dark amusement.
"Damn, okay," he said, rubbing the back of his neck through his suit. "That is one hardcore blood oath, buddy. Remind me never to play poker with you."
He went quiet for a second, the playful energy settling into something a bit more intense. Then, he leaned against the counter, his tone shifting as he asked a seemingly random question.
"But let's hypothesize this up for a second. What about skin like mine? Does this miracle fruit of yours work on... extreme cases?"
Before Rosh could even open his mouth to answer, the man reached up, grabbed the edge of his fabric mask, and pulled it completely off his head.
The moment his face was fully revealed, Rosh's entire body went rigid. It took every ounce of his retail-trained self-control not to flinch right then and there.
Scars. Deep, jagged burn marks. Heavily pitted, uneven flesh. Twisted patches of violently damaged skin covered almost every single visible inch of the man's face. It looked less like the face of a living human being and more like a topographical map of a disaster zone.
For a split second, Rosh's brain short-circuited. 'Whoa...'
Then, his eyes widened as a massive, world-altering realization slammed into him like a freight train.
'Wait! Red and black outfit. Insane, boundary-crossing humor. A voice that sounded like a movie star. No fucking way! That's Deadpool!!'
Suddenly, every single weird puzzle piece from the last five minutes clicked perfectly into place. The familiar voice he couldn't quite place? It was because he'd heard it on a movie screen in his past life. The bizarre, chaotic behavior? The total lack of concern for normal social boundaries?
Of course, it was him. Out of all the millions of ordinary citizens walking the crowded streets of Manhattan, the literal Merc with a Mouth had just wandered into his boutique fruit shop.
But the more Rosh thought about it, the more his panic faded, replaced by a wave of pure, calculating excitement. If there was anyone in the entire Marvel universe who desperately, desperately needed the power of the Smooth-Smooth Fruit, it was Wade Wilson. And if there was anyone unhinged enough to actually believe a random shopkeeper selling magical superpower fruits...
It was also Wade Wilson.
"Well?" Deadpool asked, waving a scarred, gloved hand right in front of Rosh's face to get his attention. "What's the verdict, handsome? What do you think?"
Rosh immediately snapped back into reality. Instead of showing pity or acting weirdly polite like most people probably did around Wade, Rosh decided to match the mercenary's chaotic energy. He let out a sharp breath, putting on a look of dramatic, over-the-top horror.
"Sir..." Rosh whispered, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. "I have to ask. Was your face hit by a runaway freight train?"
Deadpool didn't even blink. In fact, a dark glimmer of approval shone in his eyes.
"And then trampled by a hundred wild, angry horses," Wade replied, his voice completely deadpan. "And right after that, someone apparently decided it would be a great idea to exfoliate the whole mess with industrial-grade sandpaper. So, yeah. Is this little miracle fruit going to fix this, or am I just wasting my precious screen time?"
"Absolutely!" Rosh answered without a single shred of hesitation. His confidence shot right through the roof. This was his moment. "As I told you before, the Smooth-Smooth Fruit doesn't care about your medical history. It works on any skin type. Period."
He proudly tapped the pale, swirling fruit resting on the velvet display cushion. "One single bite is all it takes. I guarantee your skin will become completely flawless, smooth, and radiant within a matter of seconds."
Wade folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head with a heavy dose of skepticism. "Yeah, okay, organic Popeye. And I'm just supposed to believe a piece of magical grocery store produce can fix a face that looks like an avocado had sex with an older, uglier avocado?"
"You don't have to believe anything," Rosh said smoothly. He reached right beneath the wooden counter, pulling out a small, pre-cut sample of the fruit that he kept sealed for emergencies. He slid the small plate across the counter, right in front of Deadpool.
"Test this sample."
Wade stared down at the sample, then looked up at Rosh, then back at the sample. "You're not trying to pull a Snow White on me and poison a guy, are you?"
Rosh simply pointed a thumb toward the small security camera mounted in the upper corner of the ceiling. "Why would I risk it? If you drop dead in my shop, the cops see it on camera, and I go straight to prison. Bad for business."
Deadpool let out a loud snort, waving the concern away like a fly. "Please. Even if this were literal rat poison, it wouldn't kill me. My healing factor would just laugh at it."
Then, Wade leaned over the counter, jabbing a gloved finger aggressively toward Rosh's nose, a massive, mischievous grin spreading across his scarred face. "And you wouldn't go to prison, buddy. Because I'd just regenerate a new throat, come back here, and turn you into a human smoothie."
Rosh's professional salesman smile twitched slightly. 'Okay, yeah. Technically, that is a completely valid threat.'
Without waiting for Rosh to reply, Deadpool snatched the sample off the plate. He turned it over in his fingers, examining the weird, hypnotic swirling patterns etched into the skin. For a tiny fraction of a second, even the fearless mercenary hesitated.
But in true Wade Wilson fashion, pure chaotic curiosity won out.
"Eh, screw it. Worst case scenario, I throw up on your nice clean floors," Wade muttered.
Opening his mouth wide, Deadpool tossed the sample in and took a massive, aggressive bite.