Rykker chose to postpone his questioning for now; interrogation would have to wait.
If he kept badgering Aaron, the human would never get back to his musical-warning-duty which, as far as Rykker could tell, was the ritual of making breakfast.
Rykker observed through Aaron’s eyes, analyzing the strange, sterile environment.
The kitchen was lit with a crisp artificial light and sharp angles, a far cry from the warm, hearth-centered light Rykker was familiar with.
Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, casting a bland, bluish glare that turned the shadows in the corners into exposed nooks.
To Aaron, it was just a cramped apartment kitchen; to Rykker, it was a stuffy alchemy room filled with strange, foreign experiments.
The cupboards were nothing more than smooth, handle-less slabs of dry wood, aligned in rigid rows against a paper-coated wall.
The air lacked the familiar scent of damp earth or woodsmoke; instead, it reeked of metal and the faint, ozone tang, like the smell you’d find in an old storehouse.
Then there was the “fridge”—a massive, humming monolith that exhaled a breath of winter every time the seal was broken.
***
Aching for caffeine, Aaron began his morning routine.
He bypassed the half-barren cupboards, reaching instead for the bag of coffee—the only item in the apartment not bought on sale, promising a dark, roasted aroma.
Next, Aaron approached a dulled steel basin, pulling a patinated lever.
Miraculously, water poured out.
Where did the water come from?
Rykker wondered, bewildered.
Aaron claimed there was no magic here, yet what else could it be?
Without a well, river, or visible water source, Rykker was convinced this metal contraption was channeling sheer, elemental sorcery.
As the water poured, the “plumbing” didn’t just hiss; it unleashed a metallic shudder that vibrated through the floorboards like a living, pulsing vein.
Rykker watched, transfixed from within Aaron’s mind, as the torrent crashed into the metal basin with a hollow resonance.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the water vanished into oblivion, funneled down a dark, unassuming hole at the bottom with eerie speed, leaving behind only the echoing rhythm of the pipes.
There was no moss, no silt, just a barren, open drain swallowing the excess into some unseen, subterranean gut.
Aaron grabbed the carafe, placing it under the tap to fill it nearly to the rim before transferring the water into a small machine, which he casually “turned on.”
The “coffee maker” sat on the counter—an alembic waiting to perform its complex chemistry experiment.
As it heated, the initial sputter and moan morphed into a rhythmic, labored breathing.
Steam began to curl from its vents—not the lazy drift of a campfire, but a forced discharge from the boiling, internal guts of the device.
The carafe, transparent as air and fragile as muscovite1, filled with an ink-dark liquid that smelled like sunlight condensed into a liquid hug.
To Aaron, it was a boring morning ritual; to Rykker, it was a mystical conjuring of life-blood from a contraption of metal and semi-transparent, clouded mica.
He watched, breathless, as Aaron pried open the old, yellow monolith—a box that exhaled a winter’s breath into the humid room.
Inside, a hoard of food sat in the chilled defiance of the seasons.
There were eggs, but no clucking hen or nesting straw; just a cardboard tomb.
There was milk, yet the beast that produced it was nowhere to be found. Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
Finally, Aaron removed a container of strange pulverized and shaped meat that looked like rectangular slabs of sausage—sort of.
Rykker bristled at Aaron’s utter lack of wonder.
If he were in control, he would be studying the metal, flitting between the water source and the stovetop burner, filled with excitement.
But Aaron went about his motions in a typical, humdrum fashion, treating the arcane process with the indifference of a villager at a trough.
Only after a moment did Rykker realize the truth: what was a terrifying, brilliant new reality to him was merely a typical Tuesday for Aaron.
It was a world of impossible feats conducted by syrange, mechanical beasts; There was nothing natural about it.
***
Aaron’s heart hammered against his ribs as he forced his hands to move faster, scrubbing a pan until his knuckles turned white.
He knew the routine.
Scowl.
Judge.
Demand.
Simon was coming.
Sure enough, the smell of concrete, silica dust and trace chemical byproducts wafted into the room, and suddenly, the kitchen light was gone, replaced by a massive, looming silhouette.
Simon filled the doorway, his overly muscular, 200 cm1 frame occupied every square inch of the room.
He wore his usual, filthy, grime-streaked white tank top and a pair of tattered, residue-soaked jeans.
Covering the start of a bald spot amongst his thready, salt and pepper hair, he wore a red-white-and-blue striped bandana around his head, pushing his hair up, exposing his hairline.
He didn’t speak; his eyes just bored menacingly, a suffocating weight that made Aaron hold his breath, waiting for the inevitable distained critique1.
***
Simon grated his piercing, yellow-brown eyes over the cramped kitchen, finding no comfort in the stale domestic scene.
The kitchen was only partially clean; a towering mountain of crusted dishes still lingered in the sink and spilled onto the shabby, chipped laminate counters.
Breakfast was nearly done; the pungent smell of buttered toast and greasy eggs filled the air, but the food held no appeal.
Simon was beyond cranky.
His joints ached with a deep, hollow exhaustion, having spent half the night tossing and turning, fuming from the “meteor” crash, which not only damaged his apartment, but his wallet as well.
In his head, he raged over the costs of a life he could no longer afford to keep upright.
Every groan of the settling floorboards sounded like another hundred dollars he didn’t have, a mounting debt written in debris and shattered dreams.
Aaron held his breath, the kitchen air thick with the promise of a scolding.
The sink was a wreckage of last night’s dishes, piled higher than usual.
Heart hammering, he didn’t wait for the explosion; instead, he plunged into damage control, moving quickly to set the table, placing Simon’s favorite mug on the side—a silent, urgent bribe to keep Simon’s anger at bay.
Simon only huffed, then sat sternly at his spot at the table; silently grabbing the steaming mug of coffee containing two sugars and a splash of cream. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
The hot concoction seemed to temper Simon’s mood slightly, but Aaron still remained wary knowing the events of last night were fresh in everyone’s mind and it wasn’t normal for Simon to let something go so easily.
***
With rugged features etched by hard work, Simon possessed an intense presence.
His face was framed by unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard, marked by a striking patch of gray at the chin that highlighted his serious, resolved expression.
His strong bone structure and piercing, amber-eyed gaze suggested he was a man accustomed to navigating hazardous, dimly lit environments—an unsurprising trait for a demolition expert working in the city’s grimiest sectors, taking down dangerous, condemned structures.
A blend of weariness, anger, and determination in his expression hinted at a complex past and a challenging future, giving him the air of someone perpetually ready for action and survival.
Simon strummed his scarred, calloused fingers on the table while he waited for breakfast to be served.
Just as Aaron laid the plates of eggs, toast and spam down, Amanda plodded happily into the kitchen, dropping into her chair with all the grace of a sea-dwelling blobfish.
Despite her dramatic entry, her appearance was sharp: her dark plum-colored hair with bright pinkish-red highlights was pulled back into a pristine, tight ponytail, and her school uniform was so painstakingly ironed it looked rigid.
It was a daily, exhausting act—an immaculate disguise worn to blend in with the upper-crust crowd, hiding the chaos of her true, unpolished life.
***
Amanda’s existence was a masterclass in deception.
It was a meticulously constructed facade that masked a reality of crumbling, stifling poverty.
To the outside world, she was a symphony of silk, poise, and prestige; her attitude dripping with an effortless, but fake, affluence that silenced any suspicion.
She navigated elite spaces with an air of bourgeois1 sophistication, acting the part of the refined, cultured socialite so convincingly that it became her primary reality.
However, this glamorous image was only a high-stakes performance —a glass floor built over a sinkhole of broken homes, strained relationships, and financial hardship.
While her wardrobe suggested a life of leisure, the reality was an impulsive scramble to maintain appearances, often spending her last pennies on the appearance of wealth while ignoring basic necessities.
Her life functioned as an “oasis in a desert”—a serene, artificial sanctuary where the harsh, bitter, and chaotic reality of her true, fractured upbringing was meticulously buried beneath the surface.
She lived in a world where every outward display of luxury only served to deepen the divide between the person she pretended to be and the person who went home to a broken life.
This relentless, “FOMO-fueled”1 need to look successful wasn’t just a preference; it was a pressing, exhausting shield against a reality that felt like a shattered, cold, and lonely room.
***
As the three of them ate, a suffocating silence filled the tiny kitchen, heavy with unspoken weight and punctuated only by the occasional scratch of forks on plastic plates and the periodic, wet slurp of coffee.
They huddled around the small, wobbly kitchen table, their bodies pulled inward as if bracing against an invisible cold.
Though sitting mere inches apart, each remained profoundly isolated, their eyes fixed on their cellular devices or on their plates, avoiding the dangerous territory of a shared glance.
The meal itself—a surprisingly hearty spread of eggs with golden, runny yolks, buttery toast, salt-seared slabs of potted meat, and glasses of bright orange juice—seemed at odds with the bleak atmosphere.
The dense, savory heat of the food acted like a sedative, its caloric weight working to lull the three individuals into a sluggish trance.
The only real movement in the room was the slow, mechanical lifting of utensils, as the family drifted further into the safety of their own quiet, private thoughts.
Near the end of breakfast, a school bus horn blared just outside.
In a flash, the two teens exploded from their seats, vanishing in a chaotic blur of limbs and backpack straps.
6'6″flexible and transparent type of mica—a mineralmaterialisticanalytical judgementacronym for 'Fear of Missing Out'