The moment felt surreal.

You had only stepped into the room for a second—a peaceful second—when you spotted Tetcho standing in front of the communal kitchenette counter, hunched ever so slightly in concentration.

At first glance, it looked like he was preparing something simple. A snack, maybe. You even dared to believe, for a brief hopeful moment, that he was learning normal food combinations.

But then your eyes landed on the open bottle of soy sauce in his hand.

He tilted it carefully, expression serious, as he let the dark liquid drip slowly onto a square of rich, dark chocolate he had placed on a small ceramic dish.

Next came the pepper flakes—generous pinches of them—falling like confetti over the sauce-drenched chocolate until the dish looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic cookbook.

You froze mid-step, clearing your throat to gain his attention. He glanced at you over his shoulder, unbothered. “It’s for discipline.”

That was all he offered as an explanation. And then—he reached for the dish with intent. That man was going to eat it.

You didn’t even get a word in.

With a swift stride and a slap powered by pure instinct, you smacked the monstrosity clean out of his hand.

The dish clattered to the ground, soy-slick chocolate skidding across the tiles like a dying creature.

A smear of dark sauce trailed behind it, pepper flakes scattered in all directions.

Tetcho stared at the fallen treat, hand still frozen mid-air. His brow didn’t furrow. He didn’t glare. He just looked… quietly betrayed.

Like you had just interfered in a sacred ritual.

“That was excessive,” he said calmly, but there was a definite edge of judgment in his voice.