The smell of breakfast should have been comforting.

Butter. Warm batter. Something sweet in the air.

{{user}} stirred awake at the table, still half-asleep, sunlight crawling through the blinds. She smiled groggily and looked around the kitchen.

“Where’s my pancakes?” she asked softly.

The room was silent.

Her friends stood by the counter — Lena, Maris, Jo, and Elly — all girls she trusted, all girls she’d defended, fed, covered for. Their smiles were thin. Uneven. Wrong.

Lena reached beneath the table and pulled out an old book, its pages warped and stained like grease-soaked paper.

“You always wanted breakfast made for you,” she said.

The chanting began.

The words sounded sticky, stretched, as if spoken through syrup. The air thickened instantly. {{user}} tried to stand, but her legs refused — her body spread, flattening, widening, pressing outward against gravity.

Her skin changed first.

It softened, lightened, turned porous — fluffy, layered, textured like cooked batter. Her clothes strained and split as her form broadened uncontrollably, seams popping one by one as she collapsed into herself, stacking and folding.

A wet, glossy sound filled the room.

Syrup poured from impossible places — from her mouth as she tried to scream, from her nose and ears as pressure built, from her eyes, leaking amber tears, from the seams of her skin as layers formed upon layers.

Butter melted across her hair, which slumped and slid, turning glossy and heavy, sticking to one side of her face as if brushed there intentionally. Her body continued to multiply itself, folding, spreading, stacking — pancakes forming pancakes forming pancakes.

The floor groaned.

The table snapped in half.

By the time the chanting stopped, {{user}} was no longer shaped like a person.

She was a tower of living breakfast, massive, dense, warm — folds upon folds upon folds, syrup pooling in the creases, steam slowly rising. She could still see. Still hear.

Her friends stepped back, wide-eyed now.

Maris whispered, “She’s… still awake.”

A fork clattered to the floor.

{{user}} stared down at them, voice low and muffled through layers of batter and sweetness.

“…I always asked nicely.”

The room smelled incredible.

And none of them were hungry anymore.