The Wavy House is the IT house in all of Proxcilatrus. You can show a picture of the house to anyone, and they'll recognize it instantly. I mean, who hasn't seen it? It's the party centre of the city.
The wildest parties happen here, all the celebrities have been seen here, and the richest of the rich have passed through its doors. Everyone who is anyone has been there very exclusive.
If we're keeping track, the House party even outshines the best clubs in the entire city. It becomes an unspoken rule: when the neon lights start glowing from that house, you know it's about to be a crazy night.
And the guy who owns it is Bryce Joyhard. What can we even say about him? Some say he's the son of a wealthy diplomat, which is why he can throw these insane parties and not get in trouble. Others claim he got lucky with investments in some new cryptocurrency, or that he's one of those who sell get-rich-quick schemes.
There are even rumours that he's part of a mob. There are many conspiracies, but no one knows which is true. Where he comes from, what his job is, or who his family is remains a mystery. He just came out of nowhere and started throwing these lavish parties, and of course, he streams them all the time. In fact, that's the only way normal people can see what goes on at the parties—but not everything.
"On Friday night, the air is a bit sour, and it's very hot and humid. The city is busier than usual, but that's to be expected for a Friday night. You might think, based on what you see, that people here have switched to doing day activities at night—things like buying groceries, going to work or school, and generally living a normal life during the night while saving the 'night stuff' for the day. But that's not true. We just don't have a morning persay. While we have a sun and a moon, in this realm, the sky remains dark—even when the sun is visible.
There is this white building downtown. It's a bit run-down and dilapidated, with a sign of a fox in a chef coat that is halfway in the chimney holding a bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other, hanging off the building. It once read Chimney Fox Eats Best Eats in All the Streets. It is a catering headquarters.
When you reached the basement of the headquarters, it was dark, with barely enough light to cover the path. Big pots and plates were stacked in high piles all over the place. All you could hear was the furious scrubbing. In the back, you could see someone on their feet, cleaning a big pot while scrubbing so hard you'd think their nails would fall off.
This was her most annoying punishment: she had to wash all the pots and would get into even more trouble if she used magic to make the dishes wash themselves—all because she had apparently backtalked one of the bosses by saying "if you wanted your dry cleaning picked up, you should have hired a personal assistant."
"Why won't you come off, damish!" she shouted, throwing down the sponge. With soapy hands, she wiped the sweat off her forehead. She turned around and looked back at the remaining pots. She had been down here for six hours, and it barely made a dent in the number of pots left. She sighed and said, "I can't do this anymore. I'm going to sleep." She washed her hands, took off her apron, and made her way upstairs.
She walked down a busy corridor where everyone was moving. Some were carrying dishes, others were just in their own individual rooms. At one room, two girls were standing near the doorway, watching something on a phone. One of them loudly called out, "Ndoni, have you seen what Bryce Joyhard has done this time?"
She peered over the girl's shoulder, kind of curious. What was it this time? Was it them just getting absolutely wasted like always? Did a fight break out again? Did it get bloody? Or had they done something stupid, like ordering a whole beluga fish filled with expensive caviar that mysteriously disappeared right after it arrived at the party? No, this time it was something more unexpected.
"Is he proposing to his girlfriend?" Ndoni said, shocked.
Marcia, just passively responded, "I know. I didn't think they'd even last this long, let alone get married."
Then a sudden alarm blares and the red light starts spinning. Everyone starts scrambling to form a line outside and stand uniformly, no matter if they are fully dressed or in a towel because they just came out of the shower, or if their clothes are clean or stained from doing heavy labour, like Ndoni's clothes. It doesn't matter because you have to be present when the bosses arrive. We have to be ready.
Bridget whispers, "I wonder which place we're going to work at."
Ndoni whispers back, "Wonder no more, here he is—Mr. Money."
Mr. Money is one of the bosses here at Chiminy Fox Eats. He has worked all over the world as a chef, even at the highest-level restaurants. But at 36, he fell off. He never tells anyone why, but he always brags about his past accomplishments.
Marcia is eyeing him. He's a bit of a looker—young, muscular, with pretty green eyes, Red and orange hair, standing at 6'0" and a tattoo on his arm that is a thunderbolt but on fire. But his attitude is awful. I can't stand him for the life of me.
I look at Marcia and whisper, "There's your man."
She promptly replies, "Oh, hell no. Look, he's pretty to look at, but I'd rather bang my head against a glass door than date him in real life."
Mr. Money stops in the middle of the hall and announces, "I'm sure you've all heard by now about the engagement at the Wavy House since you slackers have nothing better to do. However, this has opened a window of opportunity for us, as Bryce Joyhard himself called and requested us to cater his dinner. I need the best to help me with this occasion, and I will decide based on the performance of the last catering job."
He holds out a list and continues, "Marica, Argyle, Munra, Bridget, Rolin, and last but not least, Ndoni—meet me in my office. The rest of you, get back to work."
When Mr. Money turns around and leaves Marcia, Bridget and Ndoni start jumping like teenage girls they will now get to see the inside of the wavy house but quickly they make their way upstairs.
But they remind themselves to stop and act professionally—this is a huge opportunity, after all. They get the chance to visit the legendary Wavy House. Maybe working in this catering nightmare isn't so bad after all.
, entering a dimly lit hallway before turning left into the office. The space is undeniably charming, almost like a miniature, cosy tavern. Wooden walls frame a cobblestone fireplace, while a warm brown-orange carpet covers the floor. A vintage chandelier hangs gracefully from the ceiling, casting a soft glow, and deer antlers hang on walls, adding to the rustic, old-world atmosphere.
Mr. Money sat down and poured himself a cup of purple Strix Thorn and lime turtle tea. It was his favourite, though its bitterness would make it unpalatable to most—it was the kind of thing you'd only drink when sick and desperate. Setting his cup down, he began,
"The menu has already been planned with everything Bryce Joyhard requested. He wants a family-style meal to symbolize the bond they'll soon share. This means it won't be a traditional three-course dinner—everything except dessert must come out simultaneously and at the correct temperature."
He paused, taking a sip of his tea before continuing.
"Here's what they've requested: Porcunub Club Dinner Pockets, with brioche dough and fandril aioli; a centrepiece of Moss Pig Roast; loaded Whisfin Grain; Poison Crackle Confit; Five-Cheese Mashed Sea Radish and Potato; and a layered Mixed Veg Coatie with Sun Asparagus.
For dessert, they want a Big Moist Midnight Carrot Hummingbird Cake and Green Velvet Cake Pops."
He glanced around the room, his gaze sharp and expectant. "Remember Perfection is not optional."
"We leave tomorrow at 8 a.m. Go get some rest, everyone. And Ndoni, you'd better have those pots finished by then."
He glanced around the room, his voice sharp and commanding. "Now, what are you all waiting for? Get out!"
We all scrambled out of the room in a hurry. I headed downstairs, already dreading the task ahead. I knew there was no way I'd finish the pots in time—so why not cheat? Let magic handle the rest.
Of course, you might be wondering why I didn't just cheat the whole time. Well, there were cameras and someone checking in on me every 20 minutes—until they inevitably dozed off. At that point, I was just going to leave the pots because, frankly, I'm lazy. But if I want to go to the wavy house, I guess I have to get them done.
With a flick of my wrist, the sponge and soap sprang to life, scrubbing the dishes furiously, while the mop danced across the floor, cleaning every corner. While I was looking outside to make sure no one saw.This has to be done very quietly. Then, I hear footsteps in sharp tip tap pattern approaching—someone is coming past. It's Madam Vi, the one who gave me this punishment. I thought she was asleep. She never comes down here…"A deplorable, damp dungeon that only servants deserve to work in" She's an elitist—the heiress of Proxicliatrass. Her dad handed her this superintendent job, and now she treats us like her personal assistants.
She can't come in—we're not finished! If she sees I'm not done, she'll ruin my chance to go to Bryce Joyhard's house. I have to think fast.
"Come on, Ndoni. Think, think, think. Magic, magic, magic!"
Then, I notice the steamer. There's a tube next to it, connected to a special dishwasher—one meant for delicate dishes that need an extra step. It's like a regular dishwasher, but with an extra steam nozzle. And lucky for me, that nozzle reaches the door.
I shove it next to the entrance and crank it on. Thick steam floods the hallway, blinding her and—just as a little bonus—ruining her clothes.
The mist spreads fast, filling both the hallway and the room. That's fine. I'll just put the special pots outside.
Then, the shrieking begins.
"Ndoni, turn it off! I said turn it off!"
Madam Vi stumbles, unable to see her way out. The smoke is getting thicker—I can barely see now. But finally, the last pot is washed.
I shut off the nozzle.
It took a second for the steam to thin out enough for me to see clearly. Everything was done. Relief barely had a chance to settle before I heard footsteps again. My stomach dropped. I panicked, grabbed my earplugs, shoved them in, and turned to the sink, pretending to be busy.
That's when the door swung open—hard.
"Ndoni, what the hell was that?!"
I kept my back turned, acting oblivious. She wasn't buying it. A hand grabbed my shoulder, but I smacked it away before turning around and pulling out my earbuds.
"What's up?" I asked casually.
"Did you not hear me calling you?"
I waved the earbuds in her face. "Obviously not."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "Fine. I nearly suffocated because of you—my poor asthma!"
I looked her dead in the eye. "You don't have asthma."
"But if I did, you'd never forgive yourself."
I muttered, "No, not really."
Her eyes snapped to me. "What was that?"
I just shrugged. "Look, I'm done here. I want to go back to my room."
"Not so fast. I need to inspect—thoroughly. No trace of magic residue."
I shrugged again. "Sure."
No need to panic. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a vial of Enchanter's Tincture, shaking a few drops into the air. The liquid shimmered, then turned dull as the mist spread. She squinted at the results and read aloud:
"Unknown. Too much steam for accurate result. Come back in 6 hours."
She groaned. "I don't have 3 hours for this."
I barely held back a smirk. By then, my magic would've completely faded—perfect timing.
She shot me a glare, narrowing her eyes. "You win this time. But I'm onto you."
Yeah, sure. She didn't even bother inspecting the whole room. She was just mad that I had abilities and she didn't. Oh well. Not my fault she's not even qualified for this job.
I looked over the kitchen to make sure everything was in order. That's when I noticed a note glistening in the narrow space between the fridge and the cupboard.
Curious, I reached in and took it out. To my surprise, it wasn't a note—it was an entire cookbook bound in leather. It was small and thin, with translucent plastic pages, but there was nothing written in it.
"Where did this come from?" I murmured to myself.
Just then, I heard the door open. It was Munra.
"Hey, what are you looking at?"
I replied, "This book I fou—" but before I could finish, the book vanished from my hands as if it had never been there.
Munra gave me a puzzled look. "Okay... Um, are you done? Our group is writing a prep list."
Still confused, I stared at my empty hands. "It was just here… Oh well. I'm coming."
We walked to the dining room, dimly lit with only candles. The group was already assigning tasks for the kitchen. I was put in charge of Moss's pig roast.
We went back to our rooms. I took a three-hour nap, followed by a shower, then got dressed and started packing my equipment. I was so preoccupied with the menu and everything I needed to do that I completely forgot about the book.
I went downstairs to the car when I heard Marcia and Mr. Money arguing about something. The situation escalated, with his voice growing louder and louder, until they both noticed me watching. They fell silent and then got into the car.
When we got into the truck, the ride was silent, Everyone was focused on their dish and the components they needed to prepare as soon as we arrived. This was a one-night operation—dinner started at 6 p.m., and we had ten hours to cook everything.
As the car began driving up the road, we saw the house come into view. It was perched on top of a cliff overlooking the city, the only house for miles. With no neighbors around, noise complaints wouldn't be an issue.
We reached the bronze gates adorned with majestic lion sculptures. As the gates opened, the car drove into the garage, revealing a dazzling display of fantasy cars, each one gleaming in a different vibrant color.
We were met outside, not by Bryce Joyhard, but by a butler and a group of servants dressed in crisp black and white uniforms.
As we got out of the truck, Mr. Money approached the head butler. "Hi, I'm James Iris, with Chimney Fox Eats. I spoke to a Mr. Josh Oburn."
For the record, Mr. Money isn't his real name. He earned the nickname because he's greedy and, frankly, pretty annoying. It's what we all call him behind his back—or sometimes even to his face.The head butler nodded politely. "Yes, that would be me. If you'd all be so kind as to follow me," he said, gesturing for us to come along.
He led us inside, showing us the kitchen and bathrooms, and then added, "Before anything, there is one important request. We kindly ask that you do not film or stream anything. Only Mr. Bryce Joyhard is permitted to document this event. He wants this dinner to remain a private evening with his guests. You'll have access only to the dining room, kitchen, bathrooms, and the downstairs area outside the garage, which you may use for smoking or retrieving additional food.
"We've even taken the liberty of providing extra produce, fruit, meat, and vegetables in case anything runs out. We like to take precautions."
We exchanged glances before looking back at the butler. None of us had ever had a client go this far for us before. It was kind of odd, too, since we usually bring our supplies to avoid prepping at the client's house. But it was fine, I guess Maybe we could take it home and make ourselves a good meal.
We began unloading our ingredients into the kitchen, and the place was massive. It looked like a kitchen straight out of a Michelin-starred restaurant: four separate gas stoves, four ovens, and three microwaves. There was an array of fryers, grills, industrial fridges and freezers, and exhaust hoods, all made of stainless steel and gleaming under the bright lights. There was even an industrial dishwasher.
I couldn't help but stand there in awe. Why would a person living alone need a kitchen like this? It didn't make sense.
Just then, Argyle came in, struggling with a large vegetable basket. "Hey, can you help me? This thing's pretty heavy."
Snapping out of my thoughts, I quickly stepped in to help him lift it onto the counter. As he caught his breath, he started looking around, taking in the scene. "Wow, this kitchen is better than most restaurants I've worked at—and it's spotless, too."
I nodded, still confused. "Yeah, but why would someone who lives alone need a kitchen like this in their house?"
Argyle shrugged, chuckling. "Well, he's rich. There's no logic to what the wealthy do."
We turned around, startled to see two people standing in the doorway. They were dressed in identical black-and-white uniforms and looked eerily similar. Their blonde hair was styled in bowl cuts with the back grown out, and their large yellow eyes gave them an unsettling intensity.
Their faces were oval-shaped with thin eyebrows and a complexion that was a strange blend of pale and olive, almost like champagne, They were short like 5'2. Honestly, their entire presence was unnerving. They stood there silently, watching us for a few moments before stepping forward in unison.
"Hi."
"We."
"Are."
"Evan."
"And."
"Eren," they said, speaking interchangeably but in perfect rhythm. "We are your designated dishwashers and kitchen helpers."
Argyle and I exchanged a glance. The way they spoke—so uniform, so synchronized—was downright creepy.
I stepped forward, trying to keep my voice steady. "Uh, we don't need anyone right now, so maybe you can—"
"Nonsense," one of them interrupted.
"You haven't even started cooking," the other added seamlessly.
"Our job," they continued, still alternating words, "is to help you in the kitchen."
"So that is why," the first one finished, "we are going to help you in the kitchen."
They both tilted their heads to the side in the same eerie motion.
I looked at them, confused. "Wait, why do we even need your help? If we're short on hands, we can always use magic to get things done."
The twins didn't respond right away. After a moment, one of them finally said, "Well, because magic can't do everything. It gets a bit... faulty sometimes. You need someone to help oversee that you're doing a good job."
"Oversee? I thought you guys were just here to help," I replied, narrowing my eyes.
"Well," the other twin said in an irritated tone, "overseeing is part of our helping."
"After all," the first twin added, "not all of you can do magic."
Bridget entered the room. "Hey, guys, Mr. Money wants us to—" She stopped mid-sentence, noticing the two strangers. "Who are those two?"
I quickly moved to Bridget's side and whispered, "These are the people sent to supervise us, like we're children."
One of them immediately corrected me. "No, we said our function is to help you in the kitchen."
"Not supervise you," the other added.
"We are," the first continued, "Evan and Eren."
"Delighted to meet you, Miss Bridget," they finished in unison.
Bridget looked perplexed. "Oh, and you know my name too. That's... interesting."
"We know all your names," Evan replied, pointing at Argyle. "He is Argyle Grantham Lovy, 26 years old, and has been cooking for four years."
Argyle just stood there, his mouth slightly open in shock.
Then they turned to me, pointing directly. "You are— actually"
He stops with a smirk
"let's not talk about you"
Bridget, still visibly creeped out, frowned. "Why do you know our names?"
Eren replied calmly, "It's for our jobs. We need to be as prepared as possible to ensure everything goes smoothly and comfortably."
Bridget raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't see how knowing private information helps with that, but whatever. It doesn't matter because Mr. Money needs us to get to work right now."
She turned to me. "Ndoni, he wants you to start on the Moss Pig right now. And you're also going to need to handle the carrot cake because Rolin has been reassigned. Mr. Money wants him to focus on making everything look nice and presenting it to the guests. "
Argyle responded, "Did he say what he needed?"
Bridget just shook her head as Rolin and Munra entered, carrying the last basket.
"Guys, come on, we need to hurry now. Mr. Money will be back just before dessert..." Rolin trailed off as he noticed the two blonde twins. "Who's that? Wait, are those twins?"
"They're our kitchen helpers and dishwashers," I replied casually.
"Huh, okay, that's amazing. Let's get to it," Rolin said with a shrug, moving on without a second thought.
I turned my attention to the Moss Pig. This one was massive, already brined to perfection. I started by carefully cutting off the moss that had grown around the pig and setting it aside.
Next, I melted blue butter, adding salt, secret spice mix, and a touch of mardom. I used a large injector to evenly infuse the mixture into the Moss Pig.
While I worked on that, a bit of magic helped prepare the rest. Garlic, moss, sweet leaf, and fog sprouts leapt into the blender on their own, blending into a coarse, aromatic mixture before pouring itself neatly into a bowl.
I took the mixture and spread it generously over the pig's skin, ensuring every inch was coated. Then I gathered carrot rocks, broccoli pipes, and white corn, arranging them around the pig in a large dish.
Carefully, I wrapped the entire pig in wood, creating a snug cocoon, and carried it to the indoor smoker to cook and check on it every 1 hour max. '
Everyone else was focused on their dishes, and surprisingly, the twins were actually helping Marcia with the loaded Whisfin Grain. One of them was busy chopping brown onions, thin tomatoes, and laughing parsnips. I was secretly glad they started with the laughing parsnips because every time I turned around, they would giggle behind my back. It was unnerving, to say the least.
The other twin handled all the seafood with practiced efficiency. Despite my initial skepticism, they were surprisingly competent, and the kitchen was running smoothly.
By 5 PM, we could hear the sound of fancy cars pulling up and the murmur of guests arriving. The atmosphere shifted, becoming charged with anticipation.
The head butler entered briskly and clapped his hands for attention. "Everyone, it's time. The food must be ready before the guests sit down."
Rolin took charge of plating, meticulously arranging each dish and ensuring everything looked impeccable. He added a final touch of finesse to every plate, turning the food into works of art.
I started working on the cheesecake filling while my cakes cooled. I was thrilled to be using special dairy products from Kardaver cows—the cream cheese, cream, and condensed milk were unlike anything else. The kitchen was quiet, as everyone else was either outside smoking or watching Rolin present the food.
Later, with everything set, I focused on assembling the cake, carefully decorating it with edible flowers and gold accents to make it stunning. Just as I was finishing, Rolin walked in to check on the dessert.
"Is it done yet?" he asked, leaning over my shoulder to inspect.
"Yes, it is," I replied, stepping back. "Here you go."
Rolin carefully took the cake and carried it out to the crowd. Moments later, I could hear cheers and laughter erupting from the dining room. Smiling, I washed my hands and went to my bag to grab a cigarette.
As I reached into the bag, my hand froze. The notebook was there again.
"How did you get in here?" I muttered, pulling it out. It started glowing, emitting soft, shimmering noises—strange, almost like something out of a Pandora's box tale. I was intrigued. I've always loved stories.
There was once a man, a generous soul with a kind heart. But the people around him carried dark, terrible secrets—motives his kindness kept him from seeing. He hosted grand parties, lavish dinners, always showering his guests with expensive gifts to show his love and appreciation.
And they were happy to take.
But when hard times fell upon him, when he needed them most, they vanished. Excuses piled up like dust in an empty house, and one by one, they disappeared—leaving him alone. Cold. Forgotten for months.
Then, one stormy night, there was a knock at his door.
A stranger stood outside, rain-soaked and shivering, asking for nothing more than a warm place to rest. Though the man had little left, he still found it in himself to offer kindness. A glass of water. A bowl of soup. A blanket by the fire.
And so, they talked.
And talked.
And talked.
The owner realized this was the deepest, most fulfilling conversation he had ever had—and it was with a stranger. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, unexpected and uncontrollable. He couldn't stop. The absurdity of it all hit him at once, and just as quickly, laughter turned to tears.
The man beside him offered quiet comfort, listening as the owner poured out everything—his pain, his regrets, his loneliness. When he was done, the stranger smirked and leaned forward.
"Would you mind if, for once, I gave you something?"
From his coat, he pulled out a small box with a blue button. "This will make everything right for you. Just solve the puzzle, and it will all work out."
The owner frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man's expression didn't change. "How badly do you want to be loved?"
Without thinking, without questioning, the owner pressed the button and solved the riddle.
Nothing happened.
Not at first.
But the next morning, everything was different. His lavish life had returned—only grander, more extravagant than ever. News of his sudden fortune spread, and soon, the people who had once abandoned him came crawling back.
Overcome with joy, he decided to host a celebration, just like before.
Yet, as the party unfolded, he listened. Truly listened.
The way they spoke, the way they asked for things, the way they expected more and more—why was the wine not finer? Why were the gifts so small?
And in that moment, it hit him.
They had never really been there for him.
A slow, seething anger built inside him.
And this time, he would not ignore it.
He excused himself and hurried into the kitchen, his heart pounding.
The stranger was already there, waiting, swirling a glass of wine in his hand.
"I'll ask you again," the man said smoothly. "How much do you want to be loved?"
The owner's hands clenched into fists. "Not this time." His voice was steady, cold. "I don't want love. I want them to pay—for leaving me, for using me."
The man smirked, his eyes gleaming. "Then press the blue button… and you will be loved forever."
Without hesitation, the owner pressed the button.
Then, the sounds began.
Everyone was still laughing and having fun when the owner stepped out and smiled
The owner stepped forward and turned to someone beside him, surveying them with quiet satisfaction. "I have a question," he said, his voice calm . Then looked at all of them and said "Do you all love me?"
Bones cracked. Screams echoed through the room. Their faces twisted into grotesque, permanent smiles—wide, unblinking, unnatural. Their bodies were no longer their own.
A chorus of voices, trembling yet obedient, answered in unison. "Yes."
His smile widened as he turned to one of them. "If you love me so much… carve out your face."
Terror flashed in the man's eyes, his hands trembling, resisting—until they couldn't. Against his will, his fingers wrapped around the knife. His breath hitched, his body fighting a losing battle.
And then, well… you know
He went mad, the madness fueling him with each passing moment. One by one, he forced them to destroy themselves. Their love for him was absolute, and so they obeyed, tearing themselves apart, offering more and more sacrifice, spilling more blood.
The owner stood at the center of it all, basking in the chaos.
"See? They love me now," he whispered to himself, a twisted satisfaction in his voice.
The man returned, stepping into the room and taking in the sight of the carnage. He looked at the owner, his gaze cold and final. "You're mine now."
And then, the world shifted.
The end
I stood there, confused. The scene before me was dark and gruesome, yet something felt off. It wasn't until I realized I had been so caught up that I hadn't noticed him—standing right in front of me. A man in a dark trench coat.
"You know," he said, his voice calm and unsettling, "memories can spark real tension. How much do you bet he wants to be loved?"
He was pointing at Bryce.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice trembling.
He smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with something dark. "Shhh, I just like puzzles. You go into a new world with them."
Before I could respond, Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out. The ground beneath me shook, violently, as if the world itself were cracking apart.
Fumbling, I placed the notebook on the nearest table I could feel. Panic surged as I snapped my fingers, trying to conjure a flicker of light in my palm. Before I could manage, the power abruptly came back on—and the sound of screams erupted from the dining room.
Heart pounding, I rushed in with everyone else. The scene was chaos. Rolin lay on the ground, bleeding, and Bryce Joyhard was nowhere to be found.
Everyone began panicking, shouting over one another. I quickly turned and sprinted back to the kitchen to grab my phone. As I reached the counter, I froze again. The notebook was there, open this time, to a page titled Memory Mist