Image Description: An overhead view of a fictional baked-goods town called Walnutford, designed in the style of a map. A glossy custard river runs horizontally from left to right across the centre of the image, gently curving as it flows. On either side of the river is a bustling town made entirely of baked treats. You can see pies with lattice and star tops, croissants, bread rolls, loaves, tarts, and pastry parcels, all arranged like buildings on a map. Whipped cream puffs and green fondant leaves appear like trees and parks. The ground looks like it’s dusted with fine flour or biscuit crumbs. At the top centre, large white text reads “YeastEnders”, with “Walnutford” in smaller letters below. The entire scene is warm, golden, and surreal – a deliciously baked parody of the EastEnders opening titles.
YeastEnders – Episode Sixteen: Rise of Sticky Nick
It was past midnight in Walnutford, and the only light came from a broken sign above a long-abandoned pie shop near the edge of Crumble Lane.
Inside, shadows moved between flour-dusted crates. Raisin Roxy stood stiffly by the door, flanked by a group of half-baked rebels with cinnamon scars and jam-stained coats. And at the head of the table sat the one they all feared, respected… and remembered.
Sticky Nick.
A tall, sharp-edged Chelsea bun with a jagged swirl and a golden crust that had seen better days. His icing was cracked, his smile even more so.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice thick with treacle. “Roxy returns.”
She didn’t flinch. “I told you I was out, Nick. You said I could leave.”
“I said you could try,” he smirked. “But once you’ve buttered the crust with us, there’s always a crumb trail back.”
From the shadows stepped Crusty Carl, a stale old eclair with a twitch. Then Flossie Bap, whose sweet exterior hid a fiery jam core.
“We’ve got a plan,” Sticky Nick continued, tapping a crumbling map of Almond Square with a liquorice stick. “And I want you on icing detail.”
Roxy hesitated. “And if I say no?”
Nick’s icing smile vanished. “Then your secrets rise with the dough.”
FLASHBACK A younger Roxy, apron bright and laughter sweeter, in the back of the Queen Victoria Sponge. Dotty Doughnut poured tea with care. At the counter sat Dot Crumble — an elderly square of soft stewed apple wrapped in a flaky pastry crust, her icing sugar glasses resting on her craggy top.
And there, lurking in the doorway with a grin full of crumbs — a younger Sticky Nick, icing still smooth, charm dripping like syrup.
“Stick to jam tarts and truth, Nicky,” Dot Crumble warned. “You lie long enough, and even the crust won’t hold you.”
He winked, pocketed a silver cake slicer, and vanished into the drizzle.
Back in the present, Roxy’s eyes burned.
“I’ll help,” she said quietly. “But not for you. For the others.”
Nick nodded, but behind his crusted grin, the yeast of something darker began to rise.
Blind Man Makes 