What am I?

Nebula stared at George with a puzzled expression before turning to check on something in the oven. "By the way," she said casually, "where do you keep your foil paper? The one I found is almost out."

George looked at her, utterly stupefied. "What in the hell are you... wait, scratch that. What is this witch talking about?" he muttered to himself before addressing her directly. "How did you get into my house? And where did you put all my stuff?"

"Which stuff?" Nebula asked innocently.

"Everything!" George exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "My whole stuff! I woke up and couldn't recognize my house anymore!"

Nebula spun around to face him, huffing out a chuckle. "Oh, you mean that dump I found earlier? That's what you're calling a house?" She shook her head, still smiling. "All your 'stuff' is in the waste bin. And no need to thank me."

George opened his mouth to speak but found himself at a loss for words. 'The audacity of this woman,' he thought, placing both hands over his face in exasperation. He looked around the kitchen, half-expecting to see hidden cameras. This had to be a prank, right?

Finally finding his voice, George asked incredulously, "So, let me get this straight. You broke into my house, threw out all my stuff, and now you're in my kitchen making breakfast?"

Nebula simply shrugged, walking towards him and taking off her apron. She tossed it to George, who caught it reflexively. "Keep an eye on the oven, will you? I'm heading out to get something."

George watched in disbelief as Nebula, dressed in short blue jean shorts and a crop top, walked casually out of his house as if she owned the place.

Left alone in the kitchen, still clutching the apron, George struggled to process what had just transpired. The smell of baking cookies filled the air, a surreal counterpoint to the bizarre situation he found himself in. He looked from the oven to the front door and back again, caught between the urge to chase after Nebula demanding answers and the strange compulsion to actually keep an eye on whatever she was baking.

"What in the world is happening to my life?" he muttered, slumping against the counter, the events of the past 24 hours swirling in his mind like a surreal, nightmarish carnival ride.

A few minutes later, Nebula returned, struggling to balance an armful of wine bottles as she closed the door behind her. She waddled her way to the wine cabinet, carefully offloading each bottle.

George watched in stunned silence as she moved about his home with the ease of someone who lived there. Nebula turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Are you going to be a gentleman and help me with the rest of the things in the car?"

That snapped George out of his daze. He tossed aside the apron and strode quickly to the door, blocking Nebula's path. "What do you want?" he demanded. "As you said yourself, I have nothing to offer. I woke up to find you cooking, my house clean, wearing new clothes and..." He paused, a new realization dawning on him. "Wait a second, how did I get in these clothes? I don't even remember changing."

George gasped, his eyes widening. "Did you...?" The unfinished question hung in the air between them.

Nebula shook her head, an amused smile playing on her lips. She completely ignored his questions. "It's probably all that beating you took last night that's messing with you."

"Wait a second," George said, his mind racing. "You were the one? The one who intervened at the last minute and saved me from that crazy guy?" Another thought struck him. "Hold up, how did you know I was in danger?"

Nebula shrugged nonchalantly. "I was passing by the area."

George could see right through her blatant lie. "So not only are you intruding in my home and giving me an unsanctioned makeover, you're also stalking me?!"

He stared at her, taking in her emerald eyes and the small, cheeky grin playing across her lips. It was as if all of this was perfectly normal to her.

"This is insane," George muttered, running a hand through his hair. "You can't just barge into someone's life like this, Nebula. I need answers. Real ones."

Nebula's grin widened slightly. "All in good time, George. But first, how about those cookies? They should be done by now."

George found himself at a crossroads. Part of him wanted to demand answers right then and there, to unravel the mystery of Nebula's presence and her apparent knowledge of his predicament. Another part, however, was acutely aware of how out of his depth he was – not just with Nebula, but with everything that had happened since his transformation.

As the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafted through the air, George realized that perhaps, for now, he needed to play along. After all, Nebula had saved his life, cleaned his house, and was now offering him breakfast. It was bizarre, yes, but it was a far cry from the deadly encounters he'd had recently.

With a resigned sigh, George stepped aside, allowing Nebula passage. "Fine," he said, his voice a mixture of frustration and curiosity. "But this conversation isn't over. Not by a long shot."

Nebula's eyes twinkled with an unspoken secret as she moved past him towards the kitchen. "Of course not, George," she said over her shoulder. "It's only just beginning."

George stepped outside, immediately spotting a Bentley parked in front of his house, its trunk open. He frowned, remembering the Rose Royce Nebula had driven before. The expensive car seemed out of place in his neighborhood, and a stray thought crossed his mind about how it might look to others, an expensive car parked outside his home so soon after his wife's death.

Approaching the trunk, George began removing bottles, his eyes widening as he recognized the labels. "Château Lafite 1869... Screaming Eagle Cabernet 1992... Jeroboam of Château Mouton-Rothschild 1945..." he muttered, carefully lifting each bottle. These weren't just wines; they were liquid fortunes, collectors' items that most people would never even see, let alone drink.

Shaking his head in disbelief, George carried the bottles inside. He found Nebula perched on the counter, legs crossed, munching on a cookie. "Why and how did you get these bottles?" he asked, bewildered.

Nebula swallowed her bite before responding. "Well, most of what I found when I cleaned out this place were bottles. I figured you loved to drink, but seeing the labels of what you drank, there was a high chance you'd die from being cheap rather than alcohol." She popped the rest of the cookie in her mouth, chewing contentedly.

George stared at her for a full minute. 'Did this woman just call me broke in an unnecessarily long and elaborate manner?'

After offloading the bottles, he pressed on. "Why did you save me?"

"Because you would have died if I didn't," Nebula replied matter-of-factly.

George shook his head, unsatisfied. "Didn't your brother say you should get rid of me? Why are you so interested in me?"

Nebula hopped off the counter, drumming her fingers across his chest. "Does what Harry says hold any importance?"

Confused, George persisted. "Why are you doing all of this for me?"

She turned away, asking casually, "Can't I just be nice?"

"Not to a stranger," George countered. "No one is this nice to people they know, let alone a stranger like me."

Nebula chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh, but George, you're not a stranger to me."

"How is that possible? We just met days ago."

Nebula shook her head, her expression turning slightly more serious. "Tell me, George, are any of your neighbors or family members and friends aware of the one greatest thing about you?"

"What might that be?" he asked, trepidation creeping into his voice.

Nebula's lips curled into a smirk as she bit into another cookie. "That your favorite food is blood," she said, watching as all emotion drained from George's face, replaced by a blank expression.

The silence that followed was deafening. George stood frozen, his mind reeling from Nebula's casual revelation. She knew. She knew what he was, what he had become. And judging by her nonchalant attitude, she had known all along. He had thought she only witnessed what he did to that man in the alley without a clue what he truly was but being specific as to call out the one thing that drove him off the edge? She definitely knew what he didn't.

"How..." George began, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you know that?"

Nebula's smirk softened into a more sympathetic smile. "George, there's a lot you don't understand yet about what you've become. About the world you've stumbled into. I'm here to help you."

George's mind raced with questions. If Nebula knew about his condition, what else did she know? And more importantly, what was her real agenda?

"I think," George said slowly, his eyes never leaving Nebula's face, "it's time you told me everything. No more games, no more cryptic answers. I need to know what's really going on."

Nebula nodded, her playful demeanor fading into something more serious. "You're right," she agreed. "It's time you learned the truth. But I warn you, George, once you know, there's no going back. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

George took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I'm ready," he said firmly. "Tell me everything. What am I?"