Chapter 3: The Fridge Raid Challenge

 Part 1

The next day at school felt like navigating through a dense fog. My thoughts, tangled and chaotic, crashed into each other like waves in a storm, each one pulling me deeper into confusion. This made me rub my temples, trying to steady myself, but the dizziness and unfocused haze persisted. Charlotte's words from our intense conversation echoed in my mind, each syllable dripping with unresolved emotions that gnawed at my peace. By the time the final bell rang, I was desperate to escape the suffocating walls of the school.

“Target identified: commence stealth kidnapping,” a monotone voice called out, the sound coming from the ceiling as if it was above my head.

Lost in thought, I wandered aimlessly down the hallway, my mind still replaying the morning's events. The labyrinth of corridors felt endless, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting long shadows that mirrored my tangled thoughts. Suddenly, my reverie was shattered by the appearance of two figures in ninja costumes. They burst through the doors with dramatic flair, their movements swift and precise. The surreal sight jolted me out of my daze, my heart skipping a beat as the acrid smoke stung my eyes and throat, adding to the confusion.

“What’s going on!” “Did someone start a fire?”

Before I could react, a smoke bomb landed at my feet, exploding in a cloud of thick, acrid smoke that stung my eyes and throat. Feminine hands grabbed me, yanking me into the swirling haze, my heart pounding in my chest. The world spun, a blur of confusion and panic. As the smoke cleared, I found myself in the Home Ec. club room, tied to a chair. The room was a chaotic mess of baking supplies, flour dusting the countertops and mixing bowls scattered haphazardly, the air thick with the warm, sweet scent of vanilla.

The dissonance between the comforting smell and my predicament was jarring. In front of me stood Iris and Claire, still in their ninja costumes. Claire struck a dramatic ninja pose, her face a mask of stoic determination. The absurdity of the situation made my head spin, my eyes darting between Iris and Claire as I tried to make sense of their dramatic entrance.

"Ellis, you didn't show up yesterday," Iris said, her eyes narrowing with a mix of concern and determination. "We had no choice but to take drastic measures."

I blinked, my mind struggling to process the surreal scene unfolding before me.

Iris sighed and began untying me. "We thought you might have been abducted by aliens or kidnapped by pirates," she said, her tone lightening slightly as she untied me. "But seriously, we need to talk about what happened two days ago."

Claire, still in her ninja pose, nodded solemnly. "You might have been infected by a spiritual entity," she said, her tone deadpan. "It is our shinobi duty to protect the world from evil. We have come to exorcize the being out of you."

"Exercise?" I blurted out, incredulous. "You think running laps will scare away a ghost?"

"No, exorcize. You know, the ability to drive out a malicious spirit from a person or place," Iris explained carefully. "For now, Ellis, let me see that arm of yours."

The moment she asked, the battle with Schnabelmaske replayed in my mind, each detail sharp and vivid—the eerie glow of the phantom's eyes, the chilling grip on my arm, and the echo of its sinister laugh. The specter's icy hold seemed to tighten around my arm, the initial burning sensation now a deep, throbbing bruise that pulsed with pain.

The fear and tension from that encounter resurfaced, grappling me once more. Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, I hadn't realized how the bruise had darkened and spread, the pain intensifying with each passing moment.

"This is worse than I expected," Iris muttered, her brow furrowing as she examined my arm. "Claire, the infection has spread more aggressively than we anticipated. We need to take drastic measures. Claire, bring out the needle."

My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and absurdity making my hands clammy and my breath come in short, rapid bursts. Were they really going to use one of those giant novelty needles from cartoons? The thought was both terrifying and ridiculous. Claire returned with a miniature syringe, its needle glinting ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights of the Home Ec. Room, casting long shadows on the cluttered counters where flour and sugar were scattered like remnants of a forgotten battle.

"Ellis, we need to know—have you been hearing voices?" Iris's voice took on a perturbed edge as she stared intently at me. Her question sent a shiver down my spine, my mind racing with the eerie possibility.

I forced myself to shake my head, the movement stiff and reluctant. Relief washed over her features, but a shadow of doubt lingered in her eyes. Her brow furrowed slightly as the fingers tapped nervously against the table. Seeing the syringe, a wave of nervousness washed over me, my palms growing clammy as the sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the lingering aroma of vanilla and baked goods.

"Ellis, I know this is scary," Iris said, her voice soft and reassuring, "but we need to take a little of your blood to make an antibody. It's the only way to stop the specter's infection from spreading."

Iris and Claire were complete strangers, yet something about their determination made me trust them. I nodded slowly, trying to steady my breathing. The weight of the situation pressed down on me, my mind racing as the cold metal of the chair seeped through my clothes, grounding me in the surreal reality.

"Okay, do what you need to do," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Iris smiled gently. "We need a bit of your blood to make an antibody. Once we have your consent, we'll take a sample. It will take a few days to create the cure, but in the meantime, this special blend of sugar, spices, and everything nice should help reduce the effects of the curse."

"Alright, let's do it." My voice trembled, the uncertainty gnawing at me like a persistent itch I couldn't scratch.

I was still confused about who they were and why they were doing this, but I didn't ask questions. I just wanted to get this over with. Claire approached with the syringe, her expression serious. The fluorescent lights casted a harsh glow on the metal needle, which reflected off the cluttered countertops and scattered baking supplies, adding an eerie gleam to the otherwise mundane setting.

"This won't hurt as much as a cootie shot," Claire said as she prepped the needle.

I braced myself as she carefully drew a small amount of blood. The process was quick, and it was over before I knew it. The prick of the needle was a brief sting, but the relief that followed was like a cool breeze on a hot day, washing over me in waves. Claire placed a bandage on my arm, the adhesive pulling slightly at my skin, and lastly offered to kiss my boo-boo with an expressionless grin.

"Thank you, Ellis," Iris said sincerely. "We have someone who will start working on the cure right away. In the meantime, use this blend to help with the symptoms." Iris handed over a small pouch filled with a sweet-smelling mixture, the aroma of cinnamon and cloves wafting up, a comforting contrast to the sterile scent of antiseptic.

Part 2

The comforting scent of vanilla filled the Home Ec. Room, mingling with the faint hum of the oven. From the soft clinking of utensils as Iris and Claire moved about, their movements precise and practiced like seasoned ballerinas. They rummaged through the cabinets and pulled out various ingredients, synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance. The familiar rhythm of their actions provided a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos of recent events.

I watched them intently, the scent of vanilla grounding me as my mind reeled from the whirlwind of recent events. My fingers drummed nervously on the table, the rhythmic tapping a desperate attempt to find some semblance of calm amidst the chaos. The Home Ec. Room, with its bright posters of baking techniques and shelves lined with cookbooks, usually a hub of calm and creativity, now felt like a sanctuary. Its cheerful decor was a stark contrast to the tension not too long ago. Its walls seemed to shield us from the chaos lurking just beyond the doors, offering a brief respite from the turmoil.

"Now that you've answered all our questions, I'm sure you have many of your own. Before we get started, let us explain a bit about our club." Iris exchanged a glance with Claire before continuing. "Our club is called La Patisserie. After school, we bake desserts and experiment with new recipes. But that's not all we do."

"We also exorcize phantoms.” Claire’s voice was steady and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. “It's our duty to protect the school and its students from supernatural threats."

Iris' eyes sparkled with excitement as she spoke, her enthusiasm infectious. Claire's calm, steady gaze provided a reassuring counterpoint to the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. I blinked, trying to process this new information. The warmth from the oven enveloped us, a stark contrast to the cool, crisp air outside.

"Wait, so you aren't ninjas but you bake cakes and fight ghosts?" I asked, my voice a mix of disbelief and intrigue. "That's... quite the combination. How does that even work?"

The absurdity of it made me question my own reality, my mind spinning as I tried to reconcile the normal with the supernatural. Iris gestured animatedly as she explained, her hands moving in sync with her words. Claire, on the other hand, remained still and composed, her presence grounding the conversation. The soft glow of the overhead lights cast a warm, golden hue over the room, creating a cozy, almost magical ambiance.

"It does sound strange, doesn't it? But it's true,” Iris’ gentle laugh was a soothing contrast to the gravitas of the situation, a light, melodic sound that seemed to chase away the lingering tension. “We use our baking skills to create special recipes that can repel or weaken phantoms. It's a unique blend of culinary arts and supernatural defense."

“It's an odd combination, but it works. And it's our way of contributing to the safety and well-being of our community.” Claire nodded, her serious demeanor making her seem almost comically out of place in the context of baking. “Now, if you're interested, how would you feel about learning how to bake desserts?"

The countertops were lined with bowls of ingredients, each one adding to the vibrant, chaotic energy of the room. I shrugged, feeling a bit out of my depth.

"I don't know. I can make basic meals, but I have never been interested in making desserts."

Admitting my lack of dessert skills felt like a weight lifted, my shoulders relaxing as I spoke, the tension easing from my body. The sweet scent of vanilla and sugar filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of flour. The warmth from the oven enveloped us, a comforting contrast to the cool, crisp air outside.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Claire, who had been silently inspecting a bag of flour, suddenly perked up, her eyes lighting up with a rare spark of excitement as the flour dusted her hands and apron. "How about a pound cake?" she suggested, her monotone voice somehow managing to convey a spark of excitement.

"A pound cake?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. "What exactly is that?" The name intrigued me, conjuring images of a dense, hearty cake.

While I was wondering, Claire carefully measured out the flour, her movements precise and practiced. Iris handed me a mixing bowl, her eyes twinkling with anticipation as she guided me through the steps. The soft glow of the overhead lights cast a warm, golden hue over the kitchen, creating a cozy, inviting ambiance. The distant sound of laughter from the hallway added a touch of normalcy to the otherwise surreal experience.

Iris chuckled, shaking her head with a knowing smile as she wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron. "It's the perfect recipe for new bakers. Pound cake has a rich history dating back to the 18th century. It was given that name because the original recipe used a pound of each ingredient: butter, sugar, eggs, and flour."

The kitchen was a warm, inviting space filled with the comforting aroma of vanilla and butter. The countertops were cluttered with bowls of ingredients, each one adding to the vibrant, chaotic energy of the room.

"It's a marvel of simplicity and efficiency.” Claire nodded, adding, “No need for measuring cups or scales, just equal parts of each ingredient, making it a timeless favorite in kitchens around the world." Her explanation was both practical and endearing, reflecting her down-to-earth attitude.

"Alright then, tell me more,” I asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “What makes a good pound cake?"

The anticipation in my voice mirrored the swirling questions in my mind, each one vying for attention as I tried to write everything down. Iris leaned against the counter, clearly in her element, the warm glow of the kitchen lights reflecting off the polished surfaces and casting a cozy ambiance over the room. I couldn't help but smile at their enthusiasm, feeling a warmth spread through me as their passion for baking became infectious.

“Well, the key to a good pound cake is in the technique. You have to cream the butter and sugar together until it's light and fluffy. This incorporates air into the batter, which helps the cake rise and gives it a nice, tender crumb.” Iris' eyes sparkled with excitement as she spoke, her enthusiasm infectious. Claire's calm, steady gaze provided a reassuring counterpoint to the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me.

Claire chimed in, "And don't forget about the eggs. You need to add them one at a time, beating well after each addition. This ensures that the batter stays smooth and doesn't curdle." Her precise instructions highlighted the importance of each step, her voice steady and confident, like a seasoned chef guiding a novice.

The kitchen was a warm, inviting space filled with the comforting aroma of vanilla and butter. The countertops were cluttered with bowls of ingredients, each one adding to the vibrant, chaotic energy of the room. I nodded, my mind racing to absorb all the information, my fingers itching to start mixing the ingredients.

"So, it's all about the mixing?" The complexity of the process began to intrigue me, a spark of excitement igniting within as I imagined the possibilities. The warmth from the oven enveloped us, a stark contrast to the cool, crisp air outside. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clatter of utensils added to the lively ambiance.

"Exactly," Iris said. "And the flour. You have to fold it in gently, so you don't knock out all the air you've worked so hard to incorporate. Overmixing can make the cake dense and tough." Iris's warm smile and encouraging tone made me feel more at ease, despite my initial hesitation.

Claire nodded, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “Pound cake made its way across the Atlantic and became a staple in American kitchens, cherished for its simplicity and rich flavor. During the Great Depression, when ingredients were scarce, pound cake's minimalistic recipe was a godsend. It was a cake that could be made with what little you had, yet still tasted like a treat." Her historical insight added a layer of appreciation for the humble dessert.

I felt a newfound appreciation for the modest pound cake. I had no idea it had such a rich history. The simplicity and resilience of the recipe resonated with me. The kitchen was a warm, inviting space filled with the comforting aroma of vanilla and butter. The countertops were cluttered with bowls of ingredients, each one adding to the vibrant, chaotic energy of the room.

"That's the beauty of it. Sometimes, the simplest things are the most enduring.” Iris’s smile grew brighter as she spoke. “And today, pound cake continues to evolve. Chefs and home bakers alike experiment with new flavors, techniques and interpretations, but the essence of the cake remains the same."

As Iris and Claire continued explaining, I could tell there was genuine love for baking from the both of them. From observing and listening, memories of a gentler time started flashing in my mind—being in the kitchen with Poppy. Iris' eyes sparkled with excitement as she spoke, her enthusiasm infectious. Claire's calm, steady gaze provided a reassuring counterpoint to the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me.

"Alright, let's do this. Let's make the best pound cake ever," I said, rolling up my sleeves and stepping closer to the counter, ready to dive into the process.

Part 3

The Home Ec. Room, with its pastel-colored walls and shelves lined with cookbooks, buzzed with excitement as we gathered the ingredients for the pound cake. Iris and Claire had meticulously laid out butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and a bottle of vanilla extract on the counter. The countertops, a testament to the school's rich culinary tradition, were cluttered with mixing bowls, measuring cups, and a variety of baking tools, creating a scene of organized chaos.

"Alright, Ellis," Iris said, handing me an apron with a determined look. "Let's get started. First, we need to preheat the oven to 325°F."

The air was thick with the sweet scent of vanilla, mingling with a palpable sense of anticipation. My heart raced, my palms grew sweaty, and I couldn't help but bounce on the balls of my feet, caught between excitement and nervousness.

But then I hesitated, glancing at the pink, frilly apron. 'Hey guys, any chance there's an apron that's a bit less... frilly?' I asked, scratching the back of my neck as my cheeks flushed.

"I'm sorry, Ellis, but these were the only aprons left after our club took over this room," explained Iris with a sympathetic smile. "Remember, the west building was originally an all-girls school." Her explanation made me feel slightly better, though I still felt out of place.

"You look adorable," Claire said, her voice flat and emotionless. The quick snap of her phone camera and the slight twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement, making me roll my eyes in mock annoyance. "Can you give me a cute pose while you're at it?"

The kitchen was bathed in warm sunlight, casting a golden glow on the countertops cluttered with bowls of ingredients. The air was filled with the comforting aroma of vanilla and butter, mingling with the faint scent of spices from the shelves behind Claire. I nodded to Iris, understanding her explanation.

With a sigh, I reluctantly tied the apron around my waist, feeling its unfamiliar frills brush against my sides. "Got it. What's next?" I asked, setting the oven to the correct temperature and trying to ignore the strange feeling of the apron.

Claire, standing by the sunlit window with shelves of colorful spices behind her, measured out the ingredients with precision. "We need to cream the butter and sugar together. This is a crucial step. It incorporates air into the batter, which helps the cake rise and gives it a nice, tender crumb." The soft hum of the electric mixer and the rhythmic clinking of utensils created a soothing background noise.

"Okay, so I just mix these together?" I watched, fascinated by the simplicity of the process, my curiosity piqued as the ingredients began to transform

"Not just mix," Iris corrected, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she handed me the electric mixer. "You need to beat them until they're light and fluffy."

Iris handed me the electric mixer with a playful grin, her fingers brushing lightly against mine. Taking the mixer, I started blending the butter and sugar. At first, the mixture was dense and unyielding, but gradually, it lightened and fluffed up, transforming into a creamy, airy blend. The process was almost hypnotic, a rhythmic dance of the mixer, reminiscent of the traditional baking techniques passed down through generations.

"Wow, this is actually kind of fun," I admitted, a smile spreading across my face as the mixture came together, my confidence growing with each passing second.

"See? Baking can be therapeutic," Iris said with a smile. "Now, we need to add the eggs. One at a time, and make sure to beat well after each addition."

Claire handed me the eggs, and I carefully cracked them into the bowl one by one, the sound of each shell breaking adding to the rhythm of our baking. I mixed thoroughly after each addition, watching the batter become smoother and more cohesive. The transformation from a lumpy mixture into something that actually resembles cake batter was occurring in my eyes. The satisfaction of seeing the batter come together was unexpectedly rewarding.

"You're doing great," Claire said, her monotone voice somehow managing to be encouraging. "Now, it's time to add the flour. But remember, you need to fold it in gently. Overmixing can make the cake dense and tough."

I carefully added the flour to the bowl, using a spatula to fold it into the batter, the sunlight streaming through the windows casting a warm glow over the bustling kitchen. The mixture was thick and creamy, and I could see the air bubbles trapped inside, promising a light and fluffy cake, just like the ones my grandmother used to make during the holidays. A sense of accomplishment washed over me as the batter came together, each fold of the spatula bringing a smile to my face.

"Little by little," Iris said, her eyes sparkling as she handed me a bottle of vanilla extract. "Now just a splash of this for flavor."

The instant I added a teaspoon of vanilla extract to the batter and gave it one final stir, the sweet aroma wafted up to my nose. "Alright, I think it's ready." I said, inhaling deeply. The comforting smell of vanilla was a subtle reminder of simpler times, filling the room with a sense of nostalgia and warmth.

"Perfectly done," Claire said, nodding approvingly. "Now, we just need to pour it into the pan and bake it."

I poured the batter into a greased loaf pan, smoothing the top with the spatula. The oven had reached the correct temperature, its gentle convection fan hum filling the room as I carefully placed the pan inside.

"How long does it take to bake?" With each step, the weight of the task lifted, my shoulders relaxing as I closed the oven door gently.

"About an hour and a half," Iris replied, setting a timer on her phone. "But we'll check it after an hour to make sure it's not overbaking."

As the cake baked, the room filled with the rich, buttery aroma of pound cake, mingling with the faint scent of vanilla and the comforting warmth of the oven, creating an atmosphere of cozy anticipation. We cleaned up the kitchen, chatting and laughing as we worked. The lighthearted banter and the comforting scent of baking were a welcome distraction from the stress of the past few days.

"So, have you decided to join?" Claire asked, her question cutting through my thoughts as she wiped her hands on a flour-dusted towel.

"Well, I was—" I began, but before I had a chance to answer, a beeping sound cut me off, interrupting our conversation.

Part 4

Our heads snapped towards the sleek, wall-mounted television in the corner, where numbers flashed urgently against a vibrant backdrop. The timer showed 29:59, counting down with ominous precision. The sudden announcement jolted me, my heart skipping a beat as I was snapped out of the serene baking rhythm.

"The Fridge Raid Challenge has begun. The theme challenge will be two expressions of food," a robotic voice declared from the TV.

A brief click from behind the fridge could be heard and the fridge door swung open with a creak. Peering into it revealed a chaotic assortment of ingredients, each one seemingly more random than the last.

"Claire, why did you set it to the Fridge Raid challenge?" Iris asked, her voice tinged with confusion and a hint of frustration, her brows knitting together.

The Fridge Raid Challenge, a notorious event managed by the prestigious Institute of Food Excellence and Diversity (F.E.D). It was designed to test chefs' ability to adapt and improvise with unfamiliar ingredients, a true testament to culinary prowess. The challenge had a simple but ruthless rule: chefs had to transform their original dish into two new versions using random ingredients from the fridge in the second half of their allotted time.

It was like playing Russian Roulette with food, as chefs never knew what they would get from the fridge. They had to use their creativity and skills to make the best out of the worst and impress the judges with their culinary masterpieces.

"Hmm... the system still looks like it needs to be readjusted," Claire replied, her brow furrowing in perplexity as she tapped a few buttons on the remote.

"I'm sorry, Ellis. Let's close the fridge and ignore the Fridge Raid Challenge," Iris sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. The disappointment in her voice mirrored the unease I felt.

"No, let's continue," I said, cutting her off, a spark of determination igniting within me. The challenge, though daunting, sparked a fire within me, awakening a newfound sense of resolve.

***

Iris saw a glint in his eyes, a spark of determination to overcome. She had seen it before, in someone else overlapping Ellis. She couldn't explain why, but it felt as if she had met him in the past. The familiar look stirred a sense of déjà vu in her.

Alright, if you insist," Iris said, giving in to her curiosity. Her voice hinted at her interest in seeing how he would handle the unexpected twist. She wanted to see what the boy could do, and how he could overcome the challenge.

***

With the clock ticking down, I dashed to the industrial-sized fridge, its metallic surface gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and grabbed whatever ingredients I could find. I had barely a minute left. According to the official tournament rules of the prestigious F.E.D. competition, any competitor with their hand inside the fridge when the time ran out would have points deducted on their final dish score. The pressure was intense, my heart pounding in my chest as each second stretched into an eternity.

I glanced at the mismatched ingredients in my hands, a wave of regret washing over me. I had a lemon, some honey, a carton of milk, a bag of powdered sugar, and a cinnamon stick. They didn't seem to match with the pound cake, and I had no clue what to do with them. The uncertainty gnawed at me, a stark contrast to the confidence I felt earlier.

"With these ingredients, we can make something amazing, "Iris said, her eyes sparkling with determination as she assessed the random assortment.

The girls gave clear and simple instructions, their voices steady and reassuring as they guided me through measuring and preparing everything. Their certainty was a beacon of hope. Cutting through any fog of doubt that clouded my mind.

"Combine water, honey, and cinnamon sticks to make a simple syrup," Claire explained, her voice steady as she guided me through the steps, the kitchen filled with the soft hum of the oven and the clinking of utensils. The methodical process helped calm my racing thoughts, each step grounding me in the present moment.

Simple syrup, a staple in many traditional recipes, is a liquid sweetener made by dissolving sugar in water. It was often used to sweeten cold drinks like cocktails, iced tea, iced coffee, or even lemonade. The science behind it came from its ease to mix into cold beverages rather than regular sugar because it is already dissolved. But simple syrup wasn't just for drinking—it could also be used to sweeten foods, such as fruits and baked goods. Another option was to drizzle over desserts or to use as a glaze.

"Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat,” Claire continued, her eyes focused on the bubbling pot. “Let it boil for about 3 minutes until it reduces slightly. Then strain out the cinnamon pieces from the syrup."

As I watched the mixture bubble and thicken, I dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted a little of the simple syrup, the sweet and spicy flavor warming me from the inside out. The warmth of the syrup's taste brought a sense of comfort amidst the challenge.

"Let the syrup cool down before brushing it over the cake with a pastry brush," Iris explained. "Now squeeze the lemon juice from the lemon. Sift the powdered sugar into a bowl. Add the lemon juice and some milk together."

The girls had a knack for breaking down the task into smaller steps, their experience and passion for baking shining through as they guided me through the process.

"Once you are satisfied, pour the simple syrup and icing evenly over the top of the cake and then sprinkle the lemon zest to give it that extra kick," Claire instructed, her eyes scanning the cakes critically to ensure they met her high standards.

We tested the cakes with a toothpick, watching as the golden crust resisted slightly before giving way, but they needed more time. After another 10 minutes, they emerged with a golden crust and a tempting aroma that filled the room, reminiscent of festive family gatherings. The anticipation was palpable, my heart racing with each passing second as the cakes inched closer to completion. Claire's eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she inspected the dessert, her usually stoic expression softening with pride.

*Congratulations You Baked A Pound Cake*

"Those cakes came out perfectly." "What a snack!" Iris and Claire complimented the dessert as I carefully removed them from the loaf pans, their smiles widening as the rich, buttery aroma filled the room. Iris' enthusiastic compliments made me feel more confident in my baking skills.

The instant we sliced into them, the pound cakes were moist and tender, rich and flavorful, sweet and satisfying. Following their instructions, I learned a lot from this baking challenge. The sense of accomplishment filled me, a warm glow spreading through my chest as I realized how much we had achieved together. I carefully poured the simple syrup over the cakes, watching as it soaked into the golden crust. The icing dripped down the sides, creating a glossy, tempting finish. Claire's critical eye ensured every detail was perfect.

Part 5

With the pound cake sliced and carefully wrapped, I headed home, the sweet aroma lingering in the air like a comforting embrace. Iris and Claire had assured me it would stay fresh for a few days, but I couldn't wait to share it with Charlotte and Wisteria. The thought of surprising them with my first attempt baking a dessert filled me with a sense of warmth and anticipation.

"Hey Mom?" I called out, a sense of foreboding tightened around my chest. "I brought some pound cake for us to share."

The instant I opened the door, the house greeted me with an unsettling silence, the kind that makes your skin prickle. The faint outline of furniture loomed in the darkness, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The once comforting scent of home felt like a distant memory, replaced by a cold, sterile atmosphere. My steps were hesitant as I moved through the rooms. Each creak of the floorboards echoing in the oppressive silence, my breath hitching with every sound.

The answering machine blinked ominously, its red light a harbinger of bad news. My heart pounded in my chest, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach as I reached out with a reluctance to press play, the room seeming to close in around me. The first few messages were from Charlotte and Dad, their voices familiar and comforting, momentarily easing my tension. But then Jon's voice cut through, sharp and urgent, making my stomach churn.

[Ellis, it's Jon. Your mother showed up again. Can you come and get her?]

The next message made my blood run cold. Jon's voice was more urgent, tinged with anger and desperation.

[Ellis, I need you to rush over. Your mom's injured. Please come to the bar right now.]

My heart skipped a beat, a surge of fear and panic flooding through me. My hands trembled as I grabbed my jacket, the cake forgotten on the counter. I bolted out the door, the setting sun casting long shadows that seemed to chase me as the night closed in. I ran to the bar as fast as I could, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Police cars lined the street, their red and blue lights casting eerie shadows on the pavement.

Jon stood at the entrance, his face a mask of worry and frustration. He waved me over, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and urgency. Inside, the bar was a scene of chaos—bottles smashed, tables overturned, chairs broken. The familiar, cozy atmosphere was replaced by a sense of violation and disorder. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and tension. The sight of the destruction made my heart race.

In the corner, I saw Mom lying on a couch, her body covered in bruises and blood. She was crying, her voice a broken whisper, "Poppy, Poppy." The sight of her in such a state made my stomach churn.

"Ellis," Jon's voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline in the storm. "Look at me, Ellis," he said, his tone firm yet gentle.

Jon intercepted me before I could reach her, his grip firm but gentle. His eyes locked onto mine, a mix of frustration and concern etched into his features. I braced myself for another familiar lecture. The police had been called after another altercation. The scumbag had trashed the bar and fled before they arrived, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. The reality of the situation weighed heavily on me, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.

"Ellis, it's time to get her help. We need to take your mother to a rehab center," Jon said, his voice firm yet felt off. The bar was dimly lit, the only light coming from a flickering lamp in the corner. "You can't keep doing this. You have school, a future. Taking care of her is noble, but you're still a kid."

I hated hearing this. Anger and helplessness surged within me, my fists clenching at my sides as I fought to keep my emotions in check. The rough texture of the worn carpet under my feet grounded me in the moment, while the distant hum of the refrigerator added a monotonous backdrop to the tense conversation. It wasn't fair. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my mother's fault. It wasn't even my father's fault. But it had shattered our family. People said 'just move on,' but they didn't understand.

Jon's eyes were filled with a mix of concern and determination, his hand resting gently on my shoulder as he spoke. My fists clenched at my sides, the knuckles turning white as I fought to keep my emotions in check. How do you move on when someone dies in front of you? The pain never truly goes away. You can try to numb it with alcohol and drugs, but the scars in your heart remain, a constant reminder of what you've lost. It was the reckless actions of those who didn't care about the consequences that caused innocent victims to suffer. It was that reckless action that happened to my older sister.

"Thanks for letting me know," I muttered, my voice a strained mix of gratitude and frustration, my eyes avoiding Jon's as I turned away. That was all I could manage before turning to my mom, my heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The weight of the situation pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe, my chest tightening with each step.

"I know that feeling. The amount of pain you carry…” Jon said, his voice tinged with sadness before continuing. “It would break any man."

He saw a kid who had endured too much, carrying this burden like it was his punishment for some greater sin. It was too heavy to carry alone. Jon's eyes were filled with a mix of concern and sadness, his hand resting gently on my shoulder as he spoke. My heart ached with the weight of his words, each one a reminder of the burden I carried.

Placing her arm across my shoulder, I slowly walked her home, the dim streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement as we trudged through the quiet, empty streets. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Each step felt like a struggle, the weight of her body and my emotions pressing down on me, the echoes of our footsteps the only sound in the still night.

As we walked, an ominous, dark voice whispered in my mind, a sinister presence that only I could hear. "Little mouse. Let your hate fester inside me..." The voice sent a chill down my spine, its sinister tone echoing in my mind, amplifying my fear and anger. The soft glow of the streetlights cast an eerie, almost oppressive atmosphere over the empty streets.