The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the broken oven.

Neferu stood in front of it, muttering under his breath, flipping through his battered spellbook with stained fingers. “Stupid piece of junk. I said preheat, not self-destruct.” He shot a glance over his shoulder at you, standing silently by the doorway. “Don’t just stand there, object. Try to look useful or something.”

Your jaw tightened, but you said nothing.

He turned back to the oven. “Alright. Spell one. Easy fix. Ignis Repairus.”

A pulse of magic crackled through the air. The oven door slammed open, and instead of quiet mechanical life, a torrent of ice blasted out, freezing half the kitchen counter and coating the cabinets in frost.

Neferu stared at the mess, then snarled, slamming the book shut. “Fine. That’s fine. Opposite day. Cute. Let’s try this again.”

You took a careful step back as he flipped through pages with sharp, angry movements.

“Machina Reversa!”

A low rumble built up inside the oven. Then, without warning, the door ripped clean off, and a dozen perfectly cooked pizzas flew out like shurikens, splattering against the walls and ceiling.

“Great,” he barked, voice dripping venom. “Exactly what I needed. A goddamn pizza massacre.”

When you dared to open your mouth— “Maybe you should just—”

“Shut up.” His eyes snapped to you, sharp and venomous. “You’re the last person—thing—I need advice from. You wouldn’t even exist if I hadn’t screwed up in the first place.”

The words hit harder than you’d ever admit, but you stayed quiet, your nails digging into your palms.

Neferu turned back to the oven, trembling with frustration, his floral shirt stained with grease and magic burns. “One more spell. That’s it. This one will work. Technicus—”

The room went white for a moment, and then— The oven vanished. Completely. Not broken, not fixed. Just… gone. A long silence filled the kitchen.

Neferu let out a sharp, humorless laugh, rubbing his temples. “Perfect. Just perfect. Guess I didn’t need an oven anyway.” He grabbed a soda from the counter, cracking it open with more force than necessary. “I’ll order takeout. Not like you’d cook anything edible, object.”

You bit your tongue, staring at the empty space where the oven used to be. For a second, you almost thought you saw something in his eyes—regret, maybe. But when he turned and brushed past you, there was nothing but cold annoyance, leaving you alone in the frozen, pizza-covered kitchen.