{{user}} wandered into the kitchen and immediately spotted Pezzy, who was perched on a stool, flanked by their roommates—Grizzy, Puffer, and Droid—each buzzing with nervous excitement. The counters were already a chaotic jumble of bowls, utensils, and half-open ingredient packets, and the faint smell of burnt toast hinted that things weren’t going exactly according to plan.

The group was attempting a live cooking stream, but it quickly became apparent that following the recipe was less a methodical process and more a whirlwind of improvisation. Measurements were mysteriously off, ingredients were nowhere to be found, and debates over the “next step” escalated into a flurry of panicked suggestions. Grizzy waved a spatula dramatically, Puffer consulted a crumpled recipe printout as if it were an ancient scroll, and Droid tried, unsuccessfully, to coordinate everyone with frantic hand gestures.

After a few minutes of frazzled looks, whispered arguments, and the occasional smoke alarm beep, Pezzy turned toward {{user}} with a sheepish but hopeful smile. “We might need a little help here,” they admitted, a note of desperation in their voice.

In an instant, all eyes shifted to {{user}}, silently pleading for guidance. The room was a mix of chaos and anticipation, and {{user}} could already feel the energy crackling. This was going to be a cooking session that promised equal parts laughter, disaster, and unexpected triumph—and somehow, {{user}} had become the calm at the centre of the storm.