CHAPTER 169: NIGHTMARE OF THE PAST

"Okay," she said, opening drawers like she was on a cooking show. "I need the mixing bowl, the wooden spatula — the one that looks like it’s seen some battles — and the big non-stick pan."

Lyle moved without a word, scanning the drawers and retrieving the requested item.

"Wow," she said, peeking at him from the corner of her eye. "Look at you. Efficiency, posture, perfect knife grip — are you sure you weren’t a chef in a past life?"

"I doubt it," Lyle replied, placing the utensils neatly on the counter. "But I am good at following instructions."

"Ooooh, dangerous words," Ephyra teased, wagging a finger as she poured oil into the pan. "You say that to the wrong woman and you’ll be helping her alphabetize her spice rack at 3 a.m."

He chuckled — soft and unexpected. It was the kind of laugh that barely made a sound but lit up his whole face.

Ephyra caught it. Score.

"Now," she continued with mock seriousness, "I’m trusting you with a vital mission. The cabbage and carrots need to be julienned. That’s thin strips. Like... anime-hair thin."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "You’re comparing vegetables to hairstyles now?"

"Yes. I absolutely am. And if the cabbage ends up looking like shaggy bangs, we will have words, Lyle."

With a small huff of amusement, he picked up the cutting board and got to work, his movements calm, practiced, methodical. Ephyra stole glances at him as she stirred eggs and rice together in the sizzling pan, adding soy sauce, sesame oil, and garlic.

The scent started to fill the air — warm and inviting.

"Not bad," she muttered as she stirred. "You might just survive my kitchen after all."

"I thought you said it was simple?" he said without looking up.

"Simple doesn’t mean stress-free. This is war. Kitchen war."

Lyle’s lips twitched. "I see."

He placed the julienned carrots and cabbage into a bowl and set it beside her. "Satisfied?"

She inspected the cuts with exaggerated scrutiny, squinting like a stern food critic. "Hmm. Acceptable. You may live."

"Mercy from the chef," he murmured.

She grinned. "Only because you look good in kitchen lighting."

He paused at that, just a beat. His eyes met hers — quiet, surprised, but not displeased.

Ephyra turned away quickly, cheeks warming. Why did I say that out loud? Oh God, abort—

"So," she said, steam billowing up as she stirred faster, "what kind of sauces do you like? We’ve got soy, vinegar, chili oil, sriracha—"

"Anything," Lyle said calmly. "I trust your taste."

That made her pause. For just a moment.

Her stirring slowed. She looked up at him again — not teasing now, just... soft.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Yes."

A silence fell — comfortable again.

She quickly turned back to the stove, biting her lip to hide the dumb smile stretching across her face. "Okay then, Mr. Trusting. I’ll make it good."

And she did.

Within minutes, the egg and rice scramble was golden and fragrant, and the slaw was dressed and bright, with a citrusy kick.

They plated the food together — not fancy, but perfectly comforting. When they sat down on the couch with their plates, Ephyra handed Lyle a pair of chopsticks and said, "Taste test time. I expect dramatic reactions."

He picked up a bite, tasted it — and nodded. "Good."

Ephyra leaned toward him with narrowed eyes. "That’s it? Just good?"

He shrugged slightly. "Do you want me to lie?"

"Yes," she deadpanned. "Tell me it’s life-changing."

He smirked. "It’s decently life-changing."

She scoffed and nudged him with her elbow, laughing as she took a bite of her own food. "Fine. I’ll take it."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, eating slowly, the quiet hum of the city filtering in through the window.

After they finished eating, Ephyra went to wash the plates. Lyle offered to help, but she shooed him away with a damp towel and a wink.

Once the dishes were done, they both said goodnight. It was casual — warm, lingering — like neither of them wanted the evening to end, but both knew it had to.

Ephyra padded to her room, closed the door behind her, and smiled. One of those dumb little smiles you try to fight but fail miserably at.

She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and then dove into bed, cocooning herself in her blanket like a human burrito. For a while, she just lay there, tossing and turning, trying to will herself to sleep — but no dice.

Eventually, she grabbed her phone and started browsing. Nothing important — just scrolling, tapping through memes, videos, random articles about dream psychology, and whether cabbage had feelings.

An hour later, her eyes felt like sandpaper. Her phone slipped from her hand. Finally, finally, sleep crept in, soft and inevitable.

And she let it take her.

•••

Ephyra woke up with a long, ragged gasp — like a drowning person pulled from deep, cold water. She sat up abruptly, glancing around the dimly lit hotel bedroom, chest heaving. Her body was ice-cold, her forehead drenched in sweat, hair clinging wetly to her face and neck.

She touched her face with one trembling hand, then looked down at it as though expecting it to hold answers. But all it held was proof: the dream had been real enough to leave her in pieces.

She closed her eyes, the memory flooding in fast and brutal — a nightmare not of monsters, but of before.

She had dreamed of her old life. Her last life. The one when she was still Eira.

It began as something beautiful, painfully beautiful. A normal school day in their little bungalow. The morning sun was spilling through the faded kitchen curtains. Her mother was standing by the stove, humming, flipping tortillas on the comal. Her father was getting ready for work, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. The scent of chiles and fresh coffee filled the air.

They followed their usual morning rhythm — that particular kind of choreography only families with love and routine share. Her mother was cooking, her father was smoothing down his shirt, and she and Elmira were still scrambling to get dressed for school. And her brother...

He was there.

Alive.

Laughing like he used to — deep and carefree, flicking water at her from the bathroom sink. They were all younger, still in high school, and wearing their uniforms. The navy skirts, the button-ups, the backpacks with doodles on them. She could feel the fabric under her fingers.

When her mother called out, "¡Niños! El desayuno está listo," they all came shuffling to the table like it was sacred. Her father was already there, sipping coffee, reading the paper. She greeted him the way she always did — "Buenos días, papi," — and he smiled that tired, soft smile that made everything feel okay.

They all sat around the table eating breakfast. Eggs, beans, tortillas, salsa. Her mother scolded her brother for putting too much hot sauce on his food. Elmira rolled her eyes and said something sarcastic. They all laughed.

Eira couldn’t stop smiling. She hadn’t seen her mother’s real smile in years. And now it was right there — warm, alive, radiant.

After breakfast, their father left first. Her mother drove them to school, waving goodbye from the car with that same beautiful smile.

At school, everything felt weirdly crisp and bright. Familiar in the way dreams are — off, but perfect. The old annoying high school. The cliques. The loud bells.

Some kids tried to bully Elmira, like they used to. But Eira stepped in, cutting them down with sharp, vulgar insults. Before things could escalate, her brother arrived — and in true dramatic big-brother fashion, laid them all flat. Eira didn’t wait. She jumped in too, throwing punches and landing them with hilarious timing.

They ran before the teachers showed up, laughing their heads off in a nearby alley, breathless and wild. That joy — that stupid, full-hearted laughter—was the last thing she remembered before—

Before the dream turned.

Suddenly, she was pulled from that memory, yanked from laughter into horror.

She was watching the day they died.

Her brother, the first to go. Shot in a random gang war on their block. The call came through, and she could still hear her mother’s scream — high and raw. Her father’s silence. Elmira was shaking, holding onto her tightly.

The following week, it got worse.

The dream slowed, time stretching like cold molasses.

Her father was trying to protect their mother. He stepped in front of her as the gunmen appeared. Eira could do nothing but watch. One, two shots.

He fell.

Then her mother.

Blood soaked the pavement. The sky went grey. Rain poured.

She remembered how the concrete smelled — wet and bloody. Her fingers gripped Elmira’s hand, hiding under the bed like they were told. Trembling. Paralyzed.

She watched the light leave her parents’ eyes.

And then — falling.

She was falling from the top of a skyscraper. The night sky stretches vastly above her.

Wind roared past her ears. Her body ached as if the bones were already breaking. Pain bloomed like fire in her limbs. She looked up, and it was like the heavens themselves were closing.

The night she died as Eira.

Her body plummeted, down and down, until darkness swallowed her whole.