Breakfast

The morning light filters through the large windows of the yacht's cafeteria. Most of the others are still asleep or, perhaps, avoiding the place altogether. A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I enter the almost empty room. My eyes scan the surroundings, and my relief is palpable when I notice that, at the very least, there's someone manning the kitchen.

Despite my love for cooking, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin today. The weight of the past day's ordeals, plus Ilka's constant annoying chatter – thank god I kept her spirit quiet today – has left me craving a massive breakfast without the effort of making it myself.

Stretching my arms high above my head, I approach the cooking counter. The cook, a woman I don't recognize, is intently scribbling something on a piece of paper. She seems to be in her mid-20s, with raven-blue hair tied up in a messy bun, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, and hazel eyes framed by thin glasses. She carries an air of kindness, but there's a subtle hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice dripping with honey.

I hesitate for a split second before diving in. "I'd like... well, let's start with half a dozen scrambled eggs, seasoned with a pinch of northern herbs. Maybe add a side of crispy bacon strips – make that three sides. Six slices of toasted dark bread, slathered in golden butter and red fruit jam. Oh, and do you have seafood? Maybe some grilled fish or even, dare I hope, a lobster?"

The woman's hand freezes as she jots down my order. She looks up slowly, a small twitch in her left eye. As I wrap up my slightly exaggerated breakfast request, her pen falls to the ground.

"For breakfast?" she inquires, voice trembling just a tad, an almost comical vein throbbing at her temple.

"Yes, precisely." I smile politely. "I'm a bit hungry."

Her response is a somewhat strained smile. "Coming right up," she murmurs, though it sounds more like a threat than a service confirmation.

Taking my leave, I find a secluded table near the windows. As I settle down, my thoughts wander. What's her deal? I didn't even order that much, It's her job, isn't it?

The idea of someone getting so flustered over breakfast is hilarious. Oh, I forgot, She must be mad because I ordered seafood...well she should learn to make it. Oh, wait... do they have any squid on the menu?

From where I sit, I can see her muttering to herself, throwing incredulous glances my way every so often. Seriously what's her problem? Wait, could it be...does she find me attractive? No no no, even I'm not that stupid.

Sunlight casts a warm glow on the myriad of dishes arriving at my table. As the cart laden with breakfast (or perhaps an entire day's feast for some) comes into view, I stifle a sigh. I had been anticipating this moment for a while now, perhaps slightly too eagerly. Honestly, how long does it take to whip up breakfast?

She, the cook, approaches me with a hint of swagger. Each dish is placed deliberately in front of me, and the last one... well, it hits the table with a force that suggests less of an accident and more of a passive-aggressive statement. She flashes a sweet smile, honeyed but with a touch of venom. "Apologies," she coos.

"Mistakes happen," I respond, trying to maintain a friendly demeanor. But her lingering gaze starts to make me uncomfortable. Is she... admiring me? Nah, no way!

I take a bite of the scrambled eggs. They're... edible, but nowhere near the heavenly delight I had hoped for. Moving on to the toast, I grimace. The consistency is off, the flavors muddled. The bacon, devoid of any discernible seasoning, tastes plain. But the final straw is the fish. As its bland taste assaults my taste buds, my fork clatters against the plate. Just what the fuck is this! Is she really a cook!?

She leans in, her tone dripping with sickly sweetness. "How is it? Do you like it?"

It's Kael who snaps first. He stands, slamming his hands on the table. "What the fuck is this abomination you call cooking?"

Her demeanor switches in an instant, the kindness replaced by sheer ferocity. "Huh!? What the fuck is wrong with you!? Ordering so much food like a gluttonous fatass!"

I straighten up, and there's a spark in my eyes, the fuse to my temper lit. "What's wrong with me!? You're supposed to be the cook here!"

Channeling my inner dramatic food critic, I grab a piece of toast, waving it like an accusatory weapon. "This toast? It's drier than the desert during a drought! And this fish? A grandmother's wooden leg has more flavor! And don't even get me started on these eggs! They're the culinary equivalent of a wet blanket."

She isn't taking my tirade lying down. "Oh please, maybe if your taste buds weren't so spoiled, you'd appreciate real food!"

Kael joins in, making exaggerated gagging noises. "This is 'real food'? Even a starving beggar would find this offensive!"

She looks ready to explode, her face turning an alarming shade of red. "You... you..." she sputters, her words caught in her anger.

Her smirk is icy, glinting with pure malice, and it sends a shiver down my spine despite the warm sunlight. "Oh, look at you," she begins, voice dripping with sarcasm, "you talk a lot of shit for an ugly fucker. Tell me, do you ever feel like a goblin when you look in the mirror?"

I clutch my chest, it's as if I've been struck by an arrow, reeling from her savage words. "Low blow," I wheeze, my pride in tatters, "you...you bitch."

"That tired mop on your head, those dull eyes, and that disgusting face. Darling," she tilts her head, inspecting me from head to toe, "are you even a human? I've seen goblins that look better than you."

Grinning down at her, feeling a newfound confidence, I retort, "And what about you? Ladies with flat chests shouldn't throw stones."

She stumbles back, her hands instinctively coming up to cover her chest. The triumphant grin on my face widens as she loses her footing and lands squarely on her behind. "Why's a kid manning the kitchen?" I tease. "You know, in the world of adults, real women don't sport the board-like figure you do."

For a moment, she looks utterly defeated, her face a mask of shock and humiliation. But then, with a speed I didn't anticipate, she lunges forward, fist aimed right at... well, below my belt. Pain unlike any I've ever felt explodes in my groin, and I collapse to the ground, gasping for breath.

"You... fucking... pervert!" she spits out, her face contorted with rage. "If you're so damn picky, why don't you cook for yourself?!"

My vision is still obscured by pain when Isadora steps into the cafeteria. I force myself to glance up, noting that her gaze isn't as cold as I remembered. Those deep black eyes of hers flit between me, rolling on the ground, and the cook who's now standing tall, clearly reveling in her minor victory.

Isadora's presence, unshakeable and calm, contrasts sharply with the chaos that ensued moments ago. She silently surveys the scene, blinking a few times, before her gaze settles on my table laden with food. Without a word, she moves to take a seat, picking up a fork and about to dive into the disaster that's being called breakfast.

"No!" I gasp, scrambling to my feet, my pain momentarily forgotten. "Don't eat that!"

With a swift move, I snatch the fork from her grasp and throw it at the darn cook, my action drawing her attention. She looks at me, her face still emotionless as ever, but there's a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

"Isadora," I pant, "trust me, you don't want to eat that."

But before any further explanation, the cook chimes in, her voice an octave higher than before, "A goblin is sexually assaulting me!"

I turn to face her, my eyebrows raised. "Really?" I say, exasperated. "First off, 'goblin'? Second, 'sexually assaulting'? All I did was throw a fork. Get a grip."

She points an accusatory finger at me. "It's always the ugly ones who don't know boundaries."

"You know what?" I challenge, ignoring the dig at my appearance, "I'll cook myself to prove your food is...complete ass. If I make something way better than your disaster of a meal, you will have to admit I'm not that ugly."

From her perspective, the task seemed like a no-brainer. She studied me for a moment, probably wondering if there's even a point to such a challenge. 'He wants me to admit he's not ugly? But... he's clearly so, so very ugly. It would be blasphemy to say otherwise.'

"Fine," she eventually says, her voice dripping with confidence. "If you can out-cook me, I'll... I'll admit you're not... that ugly. But if you fail, you'll have to apologize and admit my cooking is good and you have shitty taste."

I nod, "Deal."

I then turn to Isadora, who has silently been observing our exchange. "Just wait a bit. Let me teach this little girl," I emphasize, "a lesson."

The moment I enter the kitchen, my nose wrinkles in disdain. The chaos before me is a testament to her lack of culinary expertise. Pots are placed haphazardly on the counters, knives with bits of vegetables still clinging to them, and a mess of ingredients scattered about.

"What the fuck is this mess!?" I exclaim, barely able to contain my indignation. "Don't you keep this organized? Oh wait," I shoot her a smirk, "I forgot... you're a 'little girl,' huh?"

The venom in her eyes is evident, and for a split second, I wonder if I've pushed her too far. Her voice is shrill with panic and anger when she retorts, "You goblin bastard! You brought me back here to sexually assault me, didn't you?! Just because I can't fight doesn't mean I won't go down swinging!"

My heart skips a beat, taken aback by her bold accusation. I click my tongue and a tear manages to escape, rolling down my cheek. There's no way I'm that ugly, right?

But before I can even process the absurdity of her statement, I decide it's time to dive in. This isn't just about breakfast anymore; it's about pride, honor, and, let's face it, shutting her up. Grinning, I can already envision her defeated expression, the realization that she's been bested.

Pulling my sleeves up, I start with the scrambled eggs. First, I grab a mixing bowl, breaking the eggs into it. Whisking them, I add a splash of milk, seasoning them with a pinch of salt and freshly ground black pepper. Unlike before, I carefully fold in chives and a touch of grated cheddar, pouring the mixture into a preheated non-stick skillet. I stir it slowly, ensuring they remain soft and fluffy.

"You're stirring too slowly," she scoffs, trying to rattle me. "You'll end up with a gooey mess."

I flash her a sly smile, grabbing a spoon and holding it out for her to taste. "Try it," I challenge.

With an audible gulp, she complies. The look on her face says it all. Even she can't deny that they're leagues better than what she'd whipped up.

Next up, the toast. Taking a loaf of sourdough bread, I slice it into thick pieces, spreading them with a layer of unsalted butter. I place them on a hot griddle, ensuring both sides achieve a crispy, golden-brown finish. The smell alone is a delight. For a touch of sophistication, I prepare a quick garlic and herb butter, spreading it on the toast while still hot, then top it with a smear of freshly made strawberry jam.

Moving on to the bacon, I opt for thick-cut slices. As they sizzle in the skillet, I sprinkle them with brown sugar and a touch of cayenne pepper. The resulting caramelized bacon is sweet, spicy, and tantalizingly crispy.

She wrinkles her nose, crossing her arms. "You're burning the bacon. That sugar will make it bitter."

But once again, I offer her a taste, and the smack of her lips betrays her delight. I suppress a chuckle, not wanting to gloat too openly.

Lastly, the fish. I pick a beautiful salmon fillet, marinating it in a mixture of olive oil, lemon zest, minced garlic, and dill. The fillet is then grilled to perfection, the skin crispy, the inside tender and flavorful.

She snorts, trying to mask her intrigue. "Oh, using lemon? Is this how you cook seafood?"

But this time, I simply plate the salmon without letting her taste, savoring the suspense. With a flourish, I present the feast I've created.

Light streamed in from the yacht's windows, glinting off the pristine cutlery. I stood back, admiring my culinary creations. Despite her earlier jabs, there was no denying that my cooking prowess was unmatched. I couldn't help but steal glances at the chef, waiting to see her reaction.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed her knees buckling. Her hands trembled as she took a hesitant step towards the counter. I could practically hear her thoughts echoing in the room, like a broken record, 'No, no, no, no, no, no, no...' It seemed that the thought of admitting anything remotely positive about me was harder for her than admitting her own culinary failings.

"I can't," she whispered, her voice filled with genuine anguish. "It would be a crime. A crime, I say. It doesn't matter how good your cooking is! Your face... it's like... like something straight out of my darkest nightmares...a demon."

Holding back a tear at her exaggerated dramatics, I towered over her, "Do it already."

But then, as if a switch had flipped inside her, she shot upright, a newfound resolve burning in her eyes. "I won't. I won't admit that you're not ugly. But," she took a deep breath, "I'll resign. At least to honor the bet to some degree."

My hand instinctively reached up to clutch my face, a shadow casting over my eyes. A tear escaped, rolling down my cheek. "Is that huh?" I mumbled, more to myself than to her.

She nodded, her eyes firm with a determined look. "It is."

Before she could dart away, I held out a hand to stop her. "No, it's alright. The bet was too harsh. You shouldn't have to quit because of it."

A heavy silence filled the room. Without another word, I collected the plates of food I had made and walked back to where Isadora sat waiting. I could sense her curious gaze on me, but I didn't need to explain. The state of the room, the disheveled chef, and my own dejected demeanor said it all.

The moment seems to stretch in the cafeteria. My masterpiece meal is almost forgotten, and I can't help but feel slightly peeved by the abrupt interruption. And then, in a gust of air and ruffled fabric, Biana bursts in.

Sweat glistens on her brow, her breaths coming in short, labored pants. I raise an eyebrow. I've never seen Biana in such a state before. For someone who would snooze through an apocalypse if given the chance, this is a surprising change of pace. Quite literally.

Biana runs up to the door, slamming it shut with a thud that echoes in the room. She turns the lock and takes a step back, assessing her surroundings as if expecting someone to jump out at her. The look of pure terror on her face would've been hilarious if I wasn't genuinely concerned.

I can't help but quip, "What the hell is up with you?"

Biana's eyes dart to me, wide with panic. She stumbles over to where I stand, banging her hand repeatedly on the table in distress. "No, no, no, no, no!" she gasps out between pants. I'd never imagined I'd see the day when Biana would willingly expend this much energy.

Seeing my bewildered expression, she blurts out, "It's my mother! She's hunting me down! I barely made it out in time!"

I tilt my head, trying to piece together her rambling. "Hunting you for what?"

She grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me so violently that my vision goes blurry. "That crazy bitch is planning to force-feed me a potion!" she shrieks. "A potion that won't let me sleep unless my body truly needs it. I'd be awake all the time! This is my worst nightmare, V! Help me!"

I blink a few times, processing the gravity of Biana's predicament. For a moment, there's a lull, the weight of her words sinking in. In this bizarre world, where our priorities are hilariously misplaced, Biana's dilemma does seem dire. I mean, how could anyone think of taking away a lazy person's most treasured pastime?