A beautiful black-haired woman was dragging the body of a headless man across the ground. His arms dangled limply, streaks of blood smearing the floor as she pulled him without the slightest hesitation.
Scene change: the same woman stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot filled with bubbling meat. On the counter beside her rested a severed leg, pale and stiff, dripping onto the messy tiles below. The room was a chaos of blood and stains, her movements frantic yet disturbingly routine.
Scene change: the woman sat at the table, calmly eating a stew. Steam curled upward, carrying the heavy metallic scent of iron. She chewed slowly, a strange expression of joy spread across her face as though she had never tasted anything so delightful.
My eyes opened.
I had been performing a dream divination.
The result confirmed what I had long suspected: my mother killed my father. What I had not expected was the second revelation—that she ate him.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling. the act itself did not disturb me. I don't really believe in the concepts of "right" or "wrong." To me, the universe is indifferent. Good and evil are nothing more than human constructs designed to give some form of order to chaos. What mattered more was how she appeared in my vision.
She did not look like a composed, elegant predator. She looked rabid—unstable. Driven by impulses instead of reason. There was madness in her eyes, a wild frenzy.
I remembered the series Hannibal from my past life. Hannibal was portrayed as a refined man, charismatic, even beautiful in his monstrosity. He was art. My mother, by contrast, was a storm without direction. Intelligent enough to remain uncaught all these years, yes, but lacking the poise of a true predator.
I doubted my father had been her only victim. More likely, he was simply her first.
That realization brought with it a quiet certainty: her obsession with me was becoming dangerous. Day by day, it grew sharper, more suffocating. I could not tell where it would end, but I was sure I would not like it.
Perhaps I should deal with her before it reached that point.
Still, she was entertaining—for now. When her presence became an obstacle, I would end it. I would not kill her, though. Death would be a waste. Instead, I would turn her into a puppet, Convenient and quiet.
But not yet.
I exhaled, and the sheets of my bed pulled themselves taut. Pillows arranged neatly, the blanket folded with mechanical precision. I hovered half a meter above the ground, stretching my arms outward as the buttons of my pajama shirt undid themselves. The fabric slipped from my body, followed by my trousers. A black shirt and black pants flew from the cupboard, dressing me with practiced ease.
I lowered myself gently to the floor.
The Float-Float Fruit was absurdly convenient. It had made laziness into an art form.
Descending the stairs, I found my mother already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. She turned the moment she heard me, rushing to embrace me tightly before returning to her cooking as though nothing had happened.
I said nothing.
Instead, I picked up the remote and flicked on the television. The familiar opening of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring played on the screen. I allowed myself a small smirk. At least this world retained some things from my previous life
But not everything had crossed over.
A few days ago, after setting up my new computer, I had spent hours combing the internet. Some names I expected to exist did not. There was no Luciano Pavarotti. No traces of his life or music. Even Nessun Dorma, the song I had performed earlier, appeared to be nonexistent. In this Marvel-shaped world, gaps had formed—entire cultural icons erased.
Which meant… my performances could pass as original.
Plagiarism in one world, artistry in another. A simple, elegant solution.
And artistry meant wish energy.
As my mother hummed in the kitchen, I sat back on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. My mind wandered to the American Got Talent show. I had already registered. That alone had been a minor victory—both in securing a stage for my abilities and in sparking my mother's ever-deepening obsession.
She wanted me for herself, always. Her possessiveness dripped from every word and gesture, as though she wanted to lock me away from the world.
She would fail.
Still, the thought of standing on stage and weaving power through performance intrigued me. The audience would cheer, the judges would marvel, and wish energy would flow to me in waves. Temporary fame, yes—but a useful foundation.
Breakfast was soon ready. Eggs, toast, a modest attempt at normalcy. My mother placed the plate before me with a smile that lingered just a little too long. I met her gaze, offering the faintest smile back before lowering my head to eat.
As I chewed, I considered my options. The dream divination had shown me a truth I could not ignore. My mother was more dangerous than I thought—not because of her intelligence, but because of her instability. Rational predators could be predicted, controlled. Mad ones were chaos embodied.
Her obsession with me was bound to escalate.
But until then, I would watch.
Her presence amused me.
Her downfall would amuse me even more.
For now, I ate in silence, the morning sun streaming weakly through the curtains, while the TV played the tale of hobbits, rings, and destiny in the background.