The faint creak of Kaidren's spine echoed in the stillness of the kitchen as he straightened his posture and pushed himself off the cool marble counter. The faint hiss of steam escaping from the pot's lid was steady now, dancing in curling ribbons toward the ceiling like a silent countdown to a humble feast. His fingers, dry but steady, reached for the lid. He knew better than to peer too close—he'd already made that mistake once.
With a careful lift, Kaidren tilted the glass lid away from his face. A wave of hot steam burst upward, momentarily fogging his vision. He let the heat rise unhindered, pulling his face away instinctively as the humid warmth brushed past his cheek. The scent followed immediately—rich, sharp cheese overlaid with the undeniable kick of chili. It hit his senses like a punch. His nostrils flared subtly. It was... surprisingly mouth-watering.
The boiling had done its job. The water had receded into the now-plump noodles that took up most of the pot's volume. Kaidren's eyes scanned the dish with a flicker of satisfaction in his normally impassive expression. It was a strange thing to admire—a pot of silly-looking cartoon-branded instant noodles—but the hunger gnawing at him didn't discriminate. It smelled far too good for something that looked so ridiculous on the packaging.
He placed the lid gently on the counter and reached for the bright orange seasoning packet beside him. The label was stylized in a deliberately exaggerated font, and a winking chibi rooster gave a cheesy thumbs-up. It was absurd. Kaidren narrowed his eyes at the packaging, unimpressed, and murmured under his breath.
"At least be useful, cartoon bird."
He tore the packet open with surgical care, avoiding any rogue spills that might dirty the already spotless counter. The fine powder inside tumbled into the noodles like golden dust, sinking and clinging onto the strands. It released a second wave of scent—thicker this time, and spicy enough to make his throat itch slightly.
With methodical precision, he turned toward the trash bin in the corner. His steps were soundless on the polished floor. He pressed down on the bin's foot pedal, letting the lid rise slowly. Inside were the remnants of this morning's meal—more seasoning packets and wrappers with cartoon mascots grinning up at him like ghosts from earlier cravings. He dropped the new wrapper in and let the lid close with a soft thunk.
Back at the pot, the seasonings sat unmixed—a dusty topping waiting for action. Kaidren's eyes drifted toward the wooden spoon he'd left by the sink, stained faintly with remnants of earlier noodles. He rinsed it quickly beneath the cold tap, the water hissing where it met residual heat. Then, with an almost reverent grip, he stirred.
The mixture transformed under his hand. The golden powder melted into deep amber streaks, coating the soft strands of noodles with a velvety layer of spice and cheese. A glossy sheen shimmered over the surface, making the dish look more gourmet than instant. The scent was impossible to ignore now. It filled the air—rich, warm, unapologetically indulgent.
As Kaidren stirred, his stomach betrayed him. A loud, drawn-out growl echoed inside him, surprising even himself. He blinked once, then placed a neutral hand over his abdomen.
"...That loud, huh?"
His face didn't change, but in his thoughts, there was something akin to embarrassment. It had been a long time since he'd been caught off guard by something as mundane as hunger.
He moved quickly, suddenly motivated by sheer anticipation. He reached into a lower drawer and pulled out a wide ceramic bowl—white, clean, and almost fragile in his calloused hands. He placed it carefully on the counter, adjusted the stove heat to zero, and lifted the pot's handle with practiced ease.
The smell was stronger now, teasing, even mocking. He resisted the urge to taste it mid-pour as he carefully emptied the steaming noodles into the bowl. The strands settled with a lazy swirl, steam rising from the surface in ghostly tendrils. Kaidren returned the lid to the pot, set it aside, and grabbed a pair of black reusable chopsticks from a nearby drawer.
The moment had arrived.
He padded across the apartment, bowl in one hand, chopsticks tucked between his fingers. His steps were unhurried, but there was an undercurrent of eagerness in his pace. He reached the small white dining table, placed the bowl gently on the surface, and pulled out the matching cushioned chair.
He didn't waste time.
Gripping the chopsticks, he plunged them into the steamy pile of noodles and raised a generous helping to his mouth. The first bite was instant gratification. The heat, the salt, the rich synthetic cheese—it all clashed and blended in his mouth in a way that was both intense and satisfying. He swallowed and took another bite, and then another.
It was ridiculous. Ridiculously good.
The warmth filled not just his stomach but somewhere deeper—something less physical. A small part of him, the human part that still sought comfort in the ordinary, let out a sigh of relief.
"Can't believe that stupid rooster was right," he mumbled between mouthfuls.
The comedy show still played in the background. Some ridiculous slapstick scene made the laugh track erupt, but Kaidren ignored it entirely. All his focus was on the noodles now. It wasn't gourmet, and it definitely wasn't elegant, but it was the best thing he'd eaten in this strange new life.
And for a moment, it grounded him.
He slurped the last strands cleanly and leaned back with a quiet sigh, the bowl nearly empty save for a bit of soupy residue clinging to the sides. He tapped the chopsticks against the rim once, thoughtfully. The soft clink of chopsticks echoed against the ceramic bowl as Kaidren let them drop with finality. Slouched in the white, cushioned dining chair, he leaned with a long exhale, one hand resting against his full stomach. A muted burp escaped his lips, startling even himself in the silence, though his face remained as composed as ever.
His eyes, half-lidded from satisfaction, stared blankly ahead. The spice still tingled faintly in his mouth, but the hunger that had gripped him minutes ago was now tamed—thoroughly and unapologetically. He stayed there a while, still and content, breathing slowly as his body digested the absurdly cheesy noodles he had just devoured.
Eventually, with his stomach no longer threatening to keep him rooted, Kaidren pushed the chair back slightly with the weight of his shifting body. He stood up slowly, careful not to move too quickly in case that familiar dizziness returned. His right hand reached forward to grab the now-empty bowl, red reusable chopsticks still dangling against the rim.
As he made his way to the sink, he muttered quietly to himself, "Can't believe I just ate like a pig."
His voice carried a note of disbelief, but his expression, as usual, betrayed none of it—neutral, calm, detached. A man whose thoughts were often louder than his tone. He placed the bowl into the stainless steel sink beside the stained wooden spoon he had used earlier. The faint clink of ceramic and metal was drowned slightly by the ambient buzz of the induction stove still humming as it cooled down.
Turning to the stove, Kaidren grabbed the silver pot and brought it over to the sink, stacking it gently with the rest of the used utensils. His fingers hovered for a moment before retreating.
"Right," he said under his breath, "glass of milk."
He recalled how, back on Earth, mukbang streamers always kept milk nearby when eating spicy food. A cliché, maybe, but he figured they were onto something. And since he still had that one lonely glass of milk in the fridge, it might as well serve a purpose.
Stepping over to the refrigerator, he reached for the lower handle and pulled. A gust of cold air greeted him, curling out into the warmer kitchen. He spotted the single glass container of milk—the same one he'd eyed earlier—and grabbed it with his right hand. It was pleasantly cold, its condensation slick beneath his fingers.
With his left hand, he closed the fridge door with a soft thump.
He placed the cold glass of milk onto the counter, then reached for the nearby drawer. Pulling it open, he took out a plain glass cup—handleless, smooth, and spotless. He set it beside the milk.
Kaidren paused a moment, glancing down at the milk bottle cap. It was sealed tight with a bright red twist lid. He braced the container in one hand and twisted with the other.
Nothing.
His brows twitched slightly. Not from frustration, but from the recognition that this might take more effort than expected.
"Hm."
He grabbed the hem of his gray t-shirt—still printed with the now-familiar skateboarding pizza graphic—and used it as a makeshift grip. Wrapping the cloth around the stubborn red cap, he twisted again, this time with more force.
Click.
With a satisfying pop, the lid gave way.
Kaidren exhaled through his nose, relieved. The scent of fresh milk—cool, clean, and faintly sweet—drifted up as he gently set the bottle down. He also placed the red cap on the counter beside it.
Then, instinctively, he rubbed his left hand along the side of his green shorts. The chill from holding the glass bottle had seeped into his skin, and the friction against the cloth was a small comfort. His fingers flexed slightly, warming themselves back up.
Kaidren took the cold glass bottle of milk once more into his hand, feeling its smooth surface still beaded with condensation. With a calm, deliberate motion, he lifted it and began pouring the liquid into the plain glass cup. The stream of milk flowed steadily, its surface rising until it touched the brim, just shy of spilling. Satisfied, he set the bottle down with a gentle clink against the counter and secured the red cap with a soft twist.
He picked up the now-filled cup and brought it to his lips.
The milk was cold and soothing, an instant contrast to the lingering spice that still clung to the back of his throat. He drank slowly, each gulp audible in the quiet lull between the clattering of dishes and the dull buzz of the comedy show still humming in the background. The ridiculous laugh tracks and childish voices carried on behind him, but his focus remained on the drink—this small, simple moment of relief.
With one final sip, the cup emptied.
Kaidren lowered it to the counter with quiet satisfaction. A soft burp escaped his throat, caught between the remnants of his meal and the cool milk. His neutral face didn't change, as usual, but inside, a strange sense of contentment settled in. Nothing extravagant. Just… full.
He grabbed the milk bottle again and walked it back to the fridge, opening the compartment door with his free hand. The rush of cold air brushed against his skin as he returned the glass container to its original spot. The door shut with a dull thud.
Then, without delay, he took the empty cup in hand and moved back to the sink, placing it gently beside the now modest pile of used utensils—the bowl from earlier, the red chopsticks, the stained wooden spoon, and the pot he'd boiled the noodles in.
Kaidren turned the faucet.
Water poured from the tap in a clear, steady stream, filling the basin and splashing gently as it hit ceramic and steel. He reached for the green sponge, still damp from earlier, and picked up the dishwashing soap bottle resting in its holder. After uncapping it with a quiet flick of his thumb, he squeezed a modest amount onto the sponge's surface, releasing the familiar scent of citrus and chemicals.
The rhythm of cleaning began again.
His fingers moved with mechanical familiarity—rinsing, scrubbing, turning each item in his hand with practiced care. The bowl foamed first, then the glass. The spoon, the pot, the chopsticks. The repetitive sound of dishes clinking and water swishing filled the kitchen, nearly drowning out the background noise of the unfunny sitcom still trying its hardest to entertain.
Kaidren didn't mind. The white noise was oddly comforting.
His thoughts wandered as he worked. This… this is the kind of life I wish I could live forever.
His hands moved on their own, scrubbing away remnants of his meal, but his mind was distant—wrapped around the fragile idea of peace. A quiet kitchen. Simple chores. A meal when he's hungry. A warm place to sit. No chaos. No screaming. Just… peace.
Enough to survive, he thought. Enough to not think of any problem.
But he knew better.
To keep this tranquility—to protect this fragile stillness—he would need strength. Not average strength, not just enough to get by. No. In this world, where power was law and chaos lurked just beyond the peaceful routine, he'd need to be the strongest. Only then could he truly be left alone.
Only then could he preserve this quiet.
He rinsed the last plate, watching the suds swirl down the drain, and began shaking droplets from each item before placing them neatly into the drying rack. Pot on the bottom, cup on the side, chopsticks laid straight, the wooden spoon set gently at the edge.
The faucet squeaked slightly as he turned it off.
He stepped back, arms loose at his side. The silence returned now that the water had stopped, and only the sitcom's exaggerated laugh track played on behind him.
Kaidren reached for the white towel hanging from the wall-mounted stand. He dried his hands slowly, running the fabric between his fingers, across his palms, up to his wrists. The towel was coarse but warm, and it soaked up the moisture with ease.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing slightly as he finished wiping off the last drops.
And for a moment, he just stood there.
Breathing. Still.
The dishes were clean. His stomach was full. The room was warm.
Kaidren closed his eyes briefly and whispered to himself, "Just a bit longer."....