The kitchen felt too large, too quiet, with only me and him inside. My hands shook as I held the spoon, staring at the shelves of ingredients left behind by the omegas. Stupid psycho, he didn't request for noodles today, but what could I possibly cook that wouldn't kill me if he hated it? And then I remembered. Mac and cheese. A simple dish from my old life. Comfort food. Something so normal, so safe, that just thinking about it for a second made me feel almost human again. I hadn't made it since I transmigrated into this world. Nobody here even knew it existed. Cheese was rare, pasta almost unheard of. But the kitchen had flour, milk, eggs, butter… everything I needed. And there was cheese stored carefully in the pantry. I licked my dry lips and whispered to myself, If I can do this right, maybe… maybe he'll like it.
Behind me, I could feel his eyes. Heavy. Cold. Watching every move.
The inner voice whispered, sharp and low:
