Once the front door closed, Arlen walked back into the room. He stopped at the edge of the newly furnished bed. He reached out with a pale hand, pushing down against the deep, cloud-soft surface. The mattress gave way easily, sinking beneath his palm before gently springing back.
He tilted his head, his bangs shifting.
"It does not feel like air," Arlen observed in his usual deadpan tone, speaking to no one in particular. "Air is invisible and does not have seams. But it is very bouncy."
Mika and Carly walked up to the open doorway. Carly was biting her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud, while Mika stood with her arms tightly folded, fighting the urge to rub her temples at his literal critique.
"Well? Is it acceptable, Adelaide?" Mika demanded, attempting to sound haughty to mask her lingering embarrassment. "Or are you going to tell me you prefer the solid wood?"
Arlen slowly turned around. His vacant left eye met hers, holding none of the usual defensive friction that people usually gave Mika when she barked orders.
"The wood was very reliable," Arlen said calmly. "However, my lower back was not very fond of it after last night. This is much kinder to the plum. Thank you, Ms. Mika."
Mika’s breath caught for half a second. Hearing him genuinely thank her—after everything—made that tight, uncomfortable knot in her chest pull taut again. She quickly cleared her throat and looked away, focusing on her iced coffee.
"Whatever. Just make sure you don’t ruin the sheets," Mika muttered. She pointed a thumb over her shoulder toward the kitchen. "And like I said last night... the pantry is open. Eat something real today instead of those dry convenience store crumbs."
Arlen looked past her toward the expansive kitchen island, bathed in the morning sunlight. His left eye blinked once.
"May I cook the eggs in the pan?" he asked, ensuring he understood the exact scope of his newly granted privileges.
"Yes, you idiot, you can use the stove," Mika snapped, though there was no real venom behind it, only the sharp edge of her exasperation. "Just don’t burn down my penthouse."
"I will not burn it," Arlen promised solemnly. "I do not use fire recklessly. Fire is only for cooking and eliminating evidence."
A violent, wet sputter broke the morning silence.
Carly’s eyes bulged as her throat completely locked up. The iced coffee she had been sipping went entirely down the wrong pipe, triggering a frantic, hacking cough. She doubled over, clutching her chest, and to Mika’s absolute horror and amusement, a small stream of brown liquid actually squirted directly out of Carly’s nose.
"Oh my god, Carly, gross!" Mika shrieked, taking a hasty step back to protect her pristine clothes.
"I—*cough*—he—*wheeze*—!" Carly gasped, frantically waving her free hand in the air as she tried to regain her breath, her face turning a bright, embarrassed shade of crimson. She snatched a tissue from her purse, wiping her nose and eyes while letting out a raspy, hysterical laugh. "Did he... did he just say *eliminating evidence*?!"
Mika didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly raised her right hand, bringing her palm down against her forehead with a loud, resounding *smack*. She dragged her hand down her face, letting out a long, slow, agonizing sigh. She could practically feel her brain cells actively dying, shriveling up and throwing themselves off a cliff one by one every single time Arlen opened his mouth.
"Just... don’t," Mika muttered into her palm, her voice muffled and dripping with utter exhaustion. "Don’t ask him to elaborate, Carly. If you ask him, he will explain it with some twisted, brain-dead logic that will give us both a medical emergency."
Arlen, completely oblivious to the chaos his words had caused, stood by his newly made bed. He looked at Carly, who was still coughing and wiping her nose, and then at Mika, whose hand was still plastered to her face.
With his usual, slow-motion grace, Arlen reached into the pocket of his dark knit sweater. He pulled out a small, neatly folded, clean white handkerchief—one he had likely knitted or hemmed himself—and offered it forward with a polite, deadpan nod.
"You should blow your nose," Arlen suggested softly, his androgynous voice entirely sincere and helpful. "Coffee has sugar. If it dries inside your nasal cavity, it will become very sticky and uncomfortable."
Carly let out a loud, snorting laugh, snatching the handkerchief. "Thanks, Arlen. You’re a lifesaver. A weird lifesaver."
"You are welcome," Arlen murmured. He turned his vacant left eye back to Mika, his head tilting slightly. "Ms. Mika, is your head hurting? You are holding it very tightly."
Mika slowly dropped her hand, glaring at him with a mixture of intense irritation and begrudging defeat. "My head only hurts when you speak, Adelaide. Now, go make your stupid eggs before I change my mind and lock you back in the closet."
"Okay," Arlen replied instantly.
He gave them both a polite, stiff bow of his head, mindful of his healing back, and walked past them toward the kitchen. His steps were light, almost silent, his oversized sweater swaying around his lean frame.
Carly watched him go, throwing her arm around Mika’s shoulders and leaning in with a massive, teasing grin. "I don’t care what you say, boss. He is the best thing to ever happen to this penthouse. He’s like a gorgeous, gothic cartoon character."
"He is a menace to my sanity," Mika groaned, though as she looked toward the kitchen, where Arlen was currently staring blankly at her high-end stove as if trying to figure out which knob controlled the heat, the heavy, dark weight that had been pressing on her chest since last night finally began to lift.
Arlen stood before the sleek, black induction cooktop, his hands tucked halfway inside his oversized sleeves. There were no traditional knobs or visible components where flames come out—only a flat pane of tempered glass with glowing, touch-sensitive digital icons.
He tilted his head to the left. The thick bangs shifted, shadowing his veiled eye as he stared intently at the glowing power icon. Slowly, with immense caution, he extended a single pale index finger and pressed it against the glass.
*Beep.*
A digital ring pulsed with red light. Arlen blinked, retracting his hand as if the stove might bite. He tapped it again.
*Beep. Beep.*
"I think he’s trying to communicate with it in Morse code," Carly whispered, leaning against the counter while nursing her iced coffee, thoroughly entertained.
Mika groaned, rolling her eyes as she marched into the kitchen. "Step aside before you accidentally set the timer for a rocket launch," she muttered, nudging Arlen gently away from the console—careful this time not to put any force behind it, mindful of his bruised spine.
Arlen obediently took half a step back. "The surface is very flat. Where does the fire come out?"
"It doesn’t ’come out’ anywhere, it’s induction. It uses magnetic currents," Mika explained briskly, opening a low cabinet and retrieving a non-stick skillet. She set it on the glass surface and selected the medium heat setting with a practiced swipe of her manicured fingers. "Now you put oil or butter in the pan, wait for it to heat up, and then you cook. Grab the eggs from the top shelf of the fridge."
Arlen nodded. He walked to the double-door refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved the ingredients.
With meticulous care, Arlen set the carton of eggs on the counter. He then retrieved a bunch of fresh green onions from the crisper drawer.
At the diner, he had spent many mornings watching the cook through the open kitchen window. He had observed the rhythmic, rapid *tap-tap-tap* of the chef’s knife slicing through green stalks, and his literal mind had recorded the exact sequence of movements.
Arlen selected a chef’s knife from Mika’s magnetic block. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, his posture subtly shifted. His grip was effortless, his balance perfect—the muscle memory of a lethal weapon raised in the dark corners of the Adelaide empire.
*Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.*
The knife moved with terrifying, surgical speed. The green onions were reduced to paper-thin, perfectly uniform rings in a matter of seconds.
Carly’s eyes widened, her coffee cup pausing halfway to her mouth. "Whoa. Okay. I see you."
Mika watched him closely, her brow furrowing. There was a chilling precision in how he handled the blade, a stark contrast to his vacant, docile expression. But before she could analyze it, Arlen set the knife down and turned back to the stove.
He cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a fork until they were perfectly blended, and tossed in the green onions. Next, he needed to season them. He scanned the pristine, minimalist countertop, his gaze landing on two identical, unlabeled ceramic jars. Both contained a fine white powder.
To Arlen, white powder was white powder. He opened the left jar, scooped out a generous pinch of it, and sprinkled it into the eggs.
He poured the mixture into the hot, buttered skillet. Using a spatula, he gently folded the eggs over themselves, mimicking the diner chef’s technique. Because it was his very first time cooking, he paid absolute attention to the heat, ensuring the curds remained soft, glossy, and incredibly fluffy.
When he was finished, he didn’t just slide the food onto a single plate. He retrieved three clean plates from the cupboard.