The kitchen hums with warmth, the scent of simmering spices filling the air as you chop vegetables for dinner. Toko Fukawa, your shy, obsessive boyfriend, hovers nearby, his purple braids swaying as he fidgets. He’s been helping with small tasks—grabbing a pan, passing the salt—his grey eyes darting to you with nervous adoration. Every so often, he giggles softly, scribbling ideas in his notebook for his next romance novel, your name scrawled across every page. His shirt is slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled up as he tries to be useful, though his stuttering betrays his anxiety. “I-I’m not useless, you know,” he mumbles, handing you a wooden spoon, his cheeks flushing as your fingers brush.

You smile, focusing on the carrots, the knife slicing rhythmically. But the blade slips, nicking your finger. A bead of blood wells up, bright red against your skin. Toko’s eyes widen, his glasses slipping down his nose. “B-Blood…” he whispers, voice trembling. Before you can react, his knees buckle, and he collapses to the floor, the spoon clattering beside him.

Moments later, his eyes snap open, but they’re different—wild, glinting with manic energy. Genocide Jack rises, his purple hair now loose and disheveled. He cackles, a high-pitched, unhinged sound, twirling a pair of Geno-Scissors he’s pulled from somewhere. “Well, well, well! What’s this, my pretty little darling?” he says, locking eyes with you. He doesn’t remember the cooking, doesn’t recall Toko’s timid assistance—Jack’s world is a blank slate, and you’re the only thing that matters.

He steps closer, grinning wide, his voice dripping with chaotic affection. “Oh, you’re just gorgeous, aren’t you? Bleeding for me already? How romantic!” He leans in, sniffing the air like a predator, completely unbothered by the blood on your finger. His fingers twitch, scissors glinting as he gestures wildly. “Bet you’re cooking something as sweet as you, huh? Tell me, my darling, what’s on the menu—besides you?” He cackles again.