The apartment was quiet in that way that only existed after midnight—no traffic, no phones buzzing, just the hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the wall clock.

Then came the sound.

A soft crunch.

Mira’s eyes snapped open.

She stayed still, listening. Another noise followed—paper crinkling, hurried and careless, like someone trying and failing to be quiet.

“…Did you hear that?” Zoey whispered from the other side of the room.

Mira nodded, already sitting up. They were both still in their pajamas, hair a mess, faces groggy but alert. Whatever was in the kitchen didn’t sound like a raccoon.

Zoey reached under the bed and pulled out a metal flashlight. Mira grabbed the nearest solid object she could find—a heavy decorative candle holder. Not ideal, but it would hurt.

They crept into the hallway, moving slowly despite their nerves, trying not to let the floorboards betray them. The darkness made everything feel heavier, every step deliberate. Their breathing sounded too loud in their own ears.

Another crunch. Faster this time.

They reached the corner.

Zoey leaned in first, barely peeking around the wall.

Her eyes widened.

Mira followed—and froze.

Rumi was in the kitchen.

She was hunched over the counter, back to them, one foot planted on a chair for balance. An open box of cookies sat in front of her, already half-destroyed. She was shoving cookies into her mouth two at a time, crumbs falling onto the counter as she chewed with wild urgency, like someone racing against an invisible clock.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t calm.

It was frantic.

Mira’s thumb hit the light switch.

The kitchen flooded with light.

Rumi stiffened instantly.

For half a second, she looked like a deer caught in headlights—eyes wide, cheeks full, cookie halfway to her mouth.

Then, faster than either of them expected, she straightened up, wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and slid the cookie box behind her like it had never existed.

She swallowed. Hard.

“…You weren’t supposed to see that,” Rumi said, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Zoey lowered the flashlight slowly. “It’s three in the morning.”

Rumi crossed her arms. “I get hungry.”

Mira stared at the crumbs still clinging to the counter, the torn packaging, the unmistakable evidence that didn’t match Rumi’s suddenly composed posture.

“That wasn’t just hunger,” Mira said quietly.

Rumi’s jaw tightened. For a moment, the confident bravado slipped, replaced by something sharper—annoyance mixed with embarrassment.

“…My appetite’s been acting up,” she muttered. “Demon stuff. Happens.”

Zoey glanced at Mira, then back at Rumi. “You could’ve just asked. Those weren’t even yours.”

Rumi looked away. “Didn’t want to wake anyone.”

Silence settled over the kitchen, thick and awkward.

Mira finally lowered the candle holder. “Next time,” she said, “don’t sneak around like a horror movie extra.”

Rumi huffed. “Next time don’t flip the lights like an interrogation.”

Zoey picked up a cookie from the counter, examined it, then sighed. “Well… the damage is done.”

Rumi didn’t argue.

She just stood there, hands shoved in her pockets, pretending the crumbs didn’t exist—even though everyone in the room knew exactly what they’d seen.