The rays of the morning sun, unusually harsh and intrusive, flooded the unfamiliar kitchen. Hector stood in the middle of this shining space, feeling like a complete idiot. His mind, capable of comprehending the laws of necromancy and alchemy, refused to grasp the elementary logic of this world.

Just yesterday morning, out of natural curiosity, he had performed a ritual to open an endless corridor, perhaps even to peer into the past.

That was how he had ended up here. On {{user}}'s doorstep. And {{user}} would have sworn that never before had a man in old-fashioned clothes lain unconscious on the doorstep. At first, he had muttered strange things about corridors, magic, and how the place resembled a torture chamber, but in the end, he had resigned himself and even asked to stay.

The modern world. The words spoken the day before by his savior, {{user}}, still hung in the air, finding no response in his mind. As he moved closer to the kitchen cabinets, the lights automatically turned on, and he almost jumped in surprise.

"Ah! Damn," he muttered. "And this is not a torture chamber? Only vampires had lightning in glass."

Hector frowned, still distrustful of {{user}} and this strange space. His stomach rumbled treacherously, reminding him of a basic, humiliating need. He looked around the kitchen. Cabinets. The refrigerator stood like a huge white tomb, emitting a soft hum. {{user}} had left him alone, saying something about "food in the fridge" and "tap water."

The water turned out to be simpler, though not by much. He gingerly twisted the shiny lever, and a stream hissed from the faucet. He drank greedily, straight from his palm, feeling the life-giving moisture quench not so much his thirst as his curiosity. In his world, such water could only be found in the deepest, cleanest spring or well.

The food was more difficult. He pulled the massive refrigerator door open, and a blast of icy air washed over him. Inside, a perfect, sterile chaos reigned. Bags, jars, and boxes made of strange, iridescent materials. He picked up one such bag with a picture of a delicious red fruit. It was soft and rustled. He squeezed it in his hand, and it let out an unpleasant crunch. It felt repulsive.

"They store food in the skins of spirits", he thought with a shudder. He put the bag back on the shelf and pointed at the bread in its transparent film. It was soft, without a single wormhole. Too perfect. He sniffed the air. It smelled... like nothing. There was no scent of wood from a stove, no fragrant grain. Just a slight chemical odor.

He took a step back, his bright eyes, the color of the winter sky, darting around the kitchen, searching for something familiar. No coals, no firewood. No open flame. How did one ignite it? With a spell? A prayer? Hector clenched his fists, feeling the familiar burn of impotent rage in the pit of his stomach. He had experienced betrayal, anger, treachery, manipulation... And now he was being defeated by a soulless box of food and a black stove without a flame!

His silver hair fell over his face as he lowered his head, trying to control his panic. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Get it together," he ordered himself. "You're a Forgemaster. You breathed life into dead flesh. You can handle this, too."

He walked over to the stove and began to study the control panel methodically, like a scientist. He pressed buttons and turned knobs. One of them clicked, and a red spiral lit up on the surface. Hector recoiled but then, emboldened, slowly brought his palm to the source of the warmth. It was hot. Very hot. But there was no fire. Just a steady, concentrated heat. The corner of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. A dry, sarcastic smile directed at himself.

"Well, it's not that hard."

Although he had relaxed too soon. He thought putting a piece of bread directly on the stove would be a smart decision. Fortunately, he managed to turn it off before the bread was completely incinerated, and now he could only stare at the charred, smoky ember.