I leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, surveying the unfolding chaos with the detached air of a general watching untested recruits stumble through their first drill.

Jaime commanded the stove like it was center stage at a sold-out arena, his muscular torso gleaming with sweat under the overhead lights. He was shirtless, because of course he was—modesty and Jaime De Valle existed in entirely separate dimensions.

Each flip of his spatula sent a chicken breast airborne with theatrical flair, only for it to land back in the pan with a sizzle that quickly escalated into a full-blown grease fire.

"That's right! FEEL THE HEAT!" he bellowed at the poultry, as if his sheer enthusiasm could somehow compensate for his complete lack of culinary technique. His voice reverberated off the kitchen walls, loud enough to make Jacob flinch at the counter.

"The fire is your friend! The fire is your ALLY!"

Emi hovered at his elbow like a battlefield medic attempting triage on casualties that were beyond saving. She clutched a wooden spoon in both hands, her knuckles white, her expression caught somewhere between horror and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this could still be salvaged.

The air had taken on the acrid stench of carbonizing protein, undercut by the faint metallic tang of desperation.

"Um, Jaime?" Her voice was soft, tentative, the tone of someone trying to talk down a man holding a live grenade. "Maybe we should turn the heat down? Just a little?"

"No!" Jaime didn't even glance at her, too focused on his culinary warfare. He cranked the burner higher, the blue flame roaring in response.

"Maximum heat equals maximum gains! The muscle fibers need to be SHOCKED into submission! Trust the process, Emi! TRUST IT!"

From her self-appointed corner of the kitchen, Skylar looked up from the expensive espresso machine she'd somehow coaxed into cooperation. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her perfectly crafted drink, her indigo and pink-streaked hair falling across one eye. Her gradient purple eyes tracked the disaster with the detached amusement of someone watching a trainwreck in slow motion.

"Is it supposed to be that color?" she drawled, one finger lazily pointing at the blackened hunks of meat. Her red-painted nail gleamed under the lights. "Because it looks like something a C-Rank Gate-spawn coughed up before it died."

"It is the color of GAINS, my friend!" Jaime flipped another piece with wild abandon, sending a spray of grease across the stovetop. A small fire erupted in its wake. He didn't seem to notice. "Each char mark is a testament to the glorious Maillard reaction! The beautiful browning of proteins that fuels the fires of victory and the growth of CHAMPIONS!"

From somewhere in the living room, Juan's voice drifted in, lazy and unbothered. He hadn't moved from his position sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. "He's burning it. Someone tell the idiot he's burning it. Getting up to do it myself is too troublesome."

Jacob sat hunched at the kitchen table, his datapad open to what looked like a detailed nutritional database. His fingers twitched nervously over the screen, his sharp blue eyes darting between the data and the culinary disaster unfolding before him. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one shaking finger.

"A-actually," he stammered, his voice barely audible over Jaime's enthusiastic shouting. "The, uh, the internal temperature for chicken should be 165 degrees Fahrenheit, and I really don't think that the, um, the current method is—"

"MORE FIRE!" Jaime cranked the gas burner to its absolute maximum, the flames now licking dangerously high. "SCIENCE IS FOR COWARDS! COOKING IS AN ART OF PASSION!"

I caught Natalia's eye from across the room. She stood against the far wall, arms crossed beneath her breasts, her purple hair falling in perfect waves over one shoulder.

Her expression was one of profound resignation, the look of someone watching a natural disaster and knowing there was nothing to be done but wait for it to pass.

Our eyes met, and she gave me the tiniest shake of her head, a gesture that communicated an entire conversation: This is what happens when we let the muscle-headed idiot take charge of anything requiring more than brute force.

I returned the look with a slight quirk of my lips. I know. But watching this unfold is far more entertaining than intervening.

Her eyes narrowed fractionally, a flicker of amusement breaking through her mask of cool indifference.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, we found ourselves gathered around the dining table, staring down at plates laden with what could only generously be described as "food" in the most technical, legally-mandated sense of the word.

The chicken bore a disturbing resemblance to chunks of volcanic rock, blackened and cracked on the outside, yet somehow—impossibly—remaining a suspicious, glistening pink on the inside.

It was a culinary achievement that seemed to defy the fundamental laws of thermodynamics, a monument to Jaime's absolute refusal to acknowledge the existence of a middle ground between "raw" and "incinerated."

Raphael, sitting directly across from me, stabbed one of the pieces with his fork like he was challenging it to single combat. He raised it to eye level, tilting his head as he examined it from multiple angles, his amber eyes narrowed in scientific scrutiny.

Then, with the reckless defiance of a man who'd stared down Gate-spawn and lived, he took a bite. He chewed twice, his jaw working mechanically. Then, very slowly, very deliberately, he turned his head and spat the masticated lump into his napkin when he thought no one was looking.

"So..." Marco ventured, looking around the table with the hopeful expression of a puppy waiting for a treat. His green eyes were wide, earnest. "Is it, uh, good? I mean, it's protein, right? Protein is protein?"

"It's..." Emi's face contorted as she struggled to find words that wouldn't crush Jaime's spirit. Her natural kindness warred visibly with the objective reality sitting on her plate. "It's very... flavorful! Really, um, bold! Yeah! Bold flavors!"

Soomin, sitting to Emi's left, poked at her piece with the tip of her fork as if testing whether it might suddenly lunge at her.

When the chicken made an ominous squelching sound in response, she immediately dropped the utensil and pulled her hands back into her lap, her gradient blue eyes going wide with alarm.

I'm not eating this shit.

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