The night passed without incident.
The next morning, Moon woke up right on time as the red light of Hell filtered into his room.
He hadn’t dreamed.
Perhaps it was because he had been overthinking things every night lately; his mind was so thoroughly exhausted that he actually slept exceptionally well.
He walked into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water.
In the mirror, he was still that gentle and elegant “Mr.
Moon,” his eyes clear with a faint, polite smile—showing no trace of the man who had stood by the window the previous night, lost in calculation.
Good.
He adjusted his collar, switching to a slightly more formal vest today, though he rolled up his sleeves as usual to make moving easier.
Pushing open the door, he found the corridor quiet.
Angel was likely still sleeping off his shift, Vaggie was probably practicing how to face him “naturally” in front of a mirror, and that old cat Husk wouldn’t show his face before noon.
Moon headed down the stairs, his fingers sliding over the handrail.
He felt a thin layer of dust.
Though Niffty was diligent, the hotel was simply too large; there were always corners that went overlooked.
Humming came from the direction of the kitchen.
It was an old jazz tune, muddled and indistinct.
Moon paused at the foot of the stairs.
The kitchen door was ajar.
Usually, this was his domain, but now a strange smell was wafting out.
It wasn’t exactly foul, but it certainly wasn’t good either.
It was the scent of scorched spices mixed with the raw, metallic tang of unwashed meat.
Moon looked inside.
As expected.
Alastor was standing before the stove.
He held his microphone cane—the one he usually used to command shadows—and was using it as a stirring spoon, swirling it through a large black pot.
Moon hadn’t even crossed the threshold yet.
“Oh, good morning!
Our dear pianist!”
Alastor had already turned around.
His smile stretched from ear to ear, his red pupils brimming with interest. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
“I thought to myself, since you’ve been working so hard these past few days to feed us poor souls, it’s only right that I, as a cultured gentleman, should reciprocate!”
The cane tapped against the rim of the pot with a metallic clang.
“This is a secret recipe passed down from my mother—Louisiana-style jambalaya swamp stew!
Though the ingredients here are a bit…
unique, the flavor is sure to be unforgettable!”
He put a heavy emphasis on the word “unforgettable.”
Moon glanced at the pot of “stew,” which looked like it could be classified as a biological weapon, then looked back at Alastor’s face, which practically screamed, *Let’s see how you handle this.*
It was a test, or perhaps a prank.
He was observing how Moon, the “ordinary person,” would react to such a thing—whether he would panic or desperately try to maintain his composure.
Moon gave a quiet chuckle in his mind.
He didn’t show a hint of disgust.
On the contrary, he took a deep breath, and a look of pleasant surprise dawned on his face.
“The aroma is…
truly unique.”
He walked up to the stove, picked up a small spoon, and without hesitation, scooped a bit of the purple broth and put it in his mouth.
His taste buds immediately underwent a nuclear explosion.
Bitter, salty, fishy, and a metallic tang like licking a rusted iron fence.
But he didn’t even twitch an eyebrow.
He even closed his eyes, “savoring” it for a moment.
“Hmm, a very bold attempt.
If I’m not mistaken, did you use a certain high-sulfur Hell-specialty chili to replace the traditional cayenne?
It certainly adds a soul-piercing impact to the dish.”
Moon opened his eyes and smiled at Alastor.
For a fleeting second, the Radio Demon’s eternal grin actually stiffened.
“However, if you could add a bit of bitter-leaf grass—the kind that grows by the marshes of the Greed Ring—it might neutralize the metallic aftertaste and bring the texture closer to what you remember?”
He made up the name of the plant on the spot.
Hell’s flora was bizarre enough that no one could be sure if such a thing existed or not.
The radio static suddenly paused, then became clearer and more cheerful.
“Ha! Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
Haha!
Hahaha!”
He burst into laughter.
“It seems you are not only an excellent pianist but also a gourmet with quite the unique palate!”
He tossed the spoon back into the pot, and the oppressive aura vanished instantly, replaced by genuine amusement.
“Well then, it seems I’ll have to trouble you for breakfast today after all.
We’ll save this pot; it’ll be perfect for treating uninvited guests another day.”
With a wave of his hand, the pot and its contents vanished.
All that remained on the stove was a scorched black ring and a lingering smell of burnt food.
Alastor started to walk out.
At the doorway, he paused.
“The moonlight has been quite lovely these last few days, especially when viewed from the second floor.”
“It’s just that those airships are far too noisy, wouldn’t you agree?”
With that, he vanished into a pool of shadows.
Moon stood in place, looking at the empty doorway.
He rolled up his sleeves, opened the refrigerator, and took out a few normal eggs.
“Right then, let’s cook.”
No matter what he had to face next, in this mad world, a normal breakfast was always the best way to start.
Charlie came skipping down from upstairs, humming a tune.
She held a new notebook with “Today’s Plan: Make Everyone More United!” written on the cover.
She poked her head into the kitchen and sniffed the air.
“Moon!
What are we having today?”
Moon flipped an egg.
“Fried eggs.”
“Yay!”
She bounced away.
She passed the scorched mark on the stove twice and didn’t notice it once.