I was in my personal kitchen, a space that could only be described as organized chaos—well, mostly chaos.
Ingredients and tools were scattered across the counters, shelves overflowing with jars of rare spices, unmarked vials, and some questionable herbs.
The air was thick with the scent of something burnt, and an experimental cauldron bubbled ominously in the corner.
In the middle of this culinary battlefield stood me, dressed in my signature stained apron and wielding a whisk like it was a sword. I wasn't cooking; oh no, I was creating. Recipes were for amateurs.
Except today, everything was going wrong.
The latest batch of my demon poison—a project I'd been working on for months—was a complete disaster. Instead of the translucent green I was aiming for, the concoction was a murky, bubbling gray. It hissed angrily as if mocking me for my failure.
"Perfect," I muttered, sarcasm dripping from my voice. "Just perfect."
