9:17 AM | Cooking
She moved through the kitchen with surgical precision.
First: the ramen.
Filled a pot with water. Set it on the stove. Gas ignited with a soft whoosh and blue flame.
While the water heated, she prepared chili oil from scratch, not because she had to, but because apparently Aveline didn't do anything halfway.
Minced garlic with rapid, perfect knife work that would make a professional chef weep. Each slice uniform, precise, like she'd measured them with calipers. Oil poured into a small pan, measured by eye, perfectly calibrated.
Garlic added. Seasoning packets torn open and dumped in. The mixture heated together, filling the kitchen with rich, savory aroma that made their stomachs growl audibly.
The water boiled.
She added the ramen noodles without breaking them apart, dropped them in whole, let them soften naturally. Set a timer on her watch. Exactly three minutes. Not three-oh-five. Not two-fifty-eight. Three minutes.
While that cooked, she cracked two eggs into a separate pan with one hand each, no shells, no mess, just perfect execution. Sunny-side up. Yolks perfectly runny, whites just set, edges slightly crispy.
Timer went off.
She drained the ramen, shaking the colander with exactly the right amount of force to remove excess water without losing noodles. Divided them into two bowls with equal portions, not eyeballed, actually equal.
Topped each with an egg, positioned dead center. Drizzled the homemade chili oil over everything in artistic swirls that somehow looked both casual and deliberate.
Then: Adrian's food.
Bread sliced thick, not from a bag, from an actual loaf she pulled from somewhere, probably baked by staff yesterday. Toasted to exact golden-brown, no burned spots, perfect color gradient.
Cracked another egg, whisked it in a small bowl with a fork, the motion was hypnotic, rapid, consistent, like a metronome. Poured it into a hot pan with butter that sizzled on contact. The omelette cooked in under two minutes, fluffy and perfect, folded over itself with a flick of her wrist that looked effortless.
Avocado sliced with the same rapid knife work, each piece uniform, fanned out across the plate in a pattern that belonged in a cookbook.
Everything assembled with the kind of precision that suggested she'd done this a thousand times or had memorized the exact aesthetic presentation.
Total time: fourteen minutes.
She set both dishes in front of them like a chef presenting at a Michelin restaurant.
"Eat."
Yuki picked up her chopsticks, skeptical because it was instant ramen, how good could it actually be?
Took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh my god."
The broth was rich, savory, with that perfect chili oil kick that warmed from the inside. The egg yolk broke when she cut into it, mixing with the broth, creating this creamy, umami bomb that made her want to cry.
Adrian tried his omelette. "Holy shit."
Fluffy. Perfectly seasoned. The avocado added this creamy, fresh contrast. The toast was crispy on the outside, soft inside, buttered perfectly.
"This is incredible," Yuki said, mouth full, not even caring about manners. "Like, actually restaurant-quality. Better than some restaurants I've been to. Why don't you cook more often?"
"Inefficient use of time. Staff provides adequate nutrition with minimal personal effort required. Cooking is reserved for survival scenarios or when demonstrating competence superiority."
"What?" Adrian asked, pausing mid-bite.
"You're both useless. I'm proving a point."
"Ouch."
"Accurate assessment, not insult."
Yuki laughed through her ramen, nearly choking. "You should seriously be a chef. Like, five-star Michelin level. You'd absolutely crush it."
"Michelin stars require consistency, presentation standards, customer service tolerance, and the ability to accept criticism gracefully." Aveline leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
"I possess none of these qualities. Also, dealing with restaurant customers would require not shooting people who complain about undercooked risotto. Statistically unlikely I could maintain that standard long-term."
"Just take the compliment," Adrian muttered.
"Acknowledged. Compliment noted and filed under 'irrelevant but appreciated.'" She glanced toward the windows, or where the windows used to be before they sealed them.
"Eat quickly. Temperature maintenance is next priority. Internal temperature has dropped to fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit. By noon, we'll be at forty-eight."
They ate.
And despite everything, the gunshot wound on Adrian's face, the storm raging outside, the complete insanity of being trapped in a billionaire's mansion with a woman who treated cooking and combat with equal mechanical efficiency, the food was perfect.
Small mercies in a cold world.
9:41 AM | The Cold Sets In
At first, the mansion held its warmth.
Residual heat from the night. Insulation. The shutters keeping out wind.
But slowly, inevitably, physics reasserted itself.
The temperature dropped.
Adrian noticed it first. A chill creeping up his arms despite the sweater. Breath starting to mist when he exhaled.
"It's getting cold," Yuki said, rubbing her arms. Goosebumps visible on her skin.
Aveline checked a wall thermostat with clinical detachment. "Backup generators maintained heating for forty-seven minutes post-power failure. Energy reserves now depleted. Internal temperature: fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit. Declining at approximately two degrees per hour. By nightfall, we'll be below forty."
"That's... really cold," Yuki said, teeth starting to chatter slightly.
"Survivable with proper preparation. Suboptimal without." Aveline left the room briefly. Returned with armfuls of sweaters, thick wool, heavy knit, the kind that cost more than most people's rent. "Layer. Conserve body heat. Thermal regulation is now manual."
She distributed them efficiently. Tossed one to Adrian, handed two to Yuki.
Adrian pulled his on. It helped. Marginally. The cold was seeping in through the walls, through the floor, like the house itself was giving up.
Yuki was shivering visibly now, despite layering.
Aveline, by contrast, had goosebumps on her arms but wasn't trembling. Just standing there, perfectly controlled, like cold was something that happened to other people.
"Fireplace," she said. "Living room. Central heating alternative. Only practical heat source remaining."
She led them through the darkened mansion to the living room. The fireplace was enormous, could fit a grown man standing upright inside it, probably had back when this place was built.
Aveline grabbed wood from a storage alcove, arranged it with geometric precision, smaller kindling at the bottom, larger logs on top, perfect airflow for optimal combustion. Struck a match.
Fire caught immediately, spreading through the kindling with hungry efficiency.
Warmth bloomed outward like a physical force.
They gathered around it like moths, hands extended, desperate for heat.
"Better," Yuki breathed, practically climbing into the fireplace.
Adrian held his hands toward the flames. The heat felt incredible, necessary, like something his body had forgotten existed.
Aveline stood slightly back, observing them with that calculating look.
Then her expression shifted. Minutely. Problem-solving mode activated.
"Issue," she said.
"What?" Adrian looked at her warily.
"Sleeping arrangements. Most bedrooms lack fireplaces. Prolonged exposure to sub-forty-degree temperatures creates hypothermia risk. Core body temperature drops below ninety-five degrees, cognitive function impairs, followed by cardiac arrhythmia, loss of consciousness, death." She paused. "We'll need to sleep here. Proximity to heat source mandatory."
Yuki groaned. "You're kidding."
"Survival logistics don't accommodate preference."
"Fantastic," Adrian muttered, already imagining trying to sleep on a marble floor.
Silence settled over them, broken only by crackling fire.
Then Aveline spoke again, voice carrying that particular tone that meant incoming terrible idea.
"Alternative solution exists. Controversial."
Adrian looked at her warily. "What?"
9:54 AM | Living Room
"Have you ever consumed vodka?"
Adrian blinked. "What?"
"Vodka. Distilled spirit. Approximately forty percent alcohol by volume." Aveline's expression remained neutral, like she was discussing weather patterns. "Answer the question."
"Obviously not," Adrian said. "That's, that's insane. Forty percent? That's like drinking liquid fire."
"Correct assessment. Ethanol content produces intense burning sensation upon ingestion. Activates TRPV1 pain receptors in throat and esophageal lining. Creates perception of heat."
"Then why would you bring it up?"
"Because," Aveline said with that infuriating calm, "the burning sensation generates internal vasodilation. Blood vessels expand. Peripheral circulation increases temporarily. Core temperature rises by approximately two degrees Fahrenheit for thirty to forty-five minutes post-consumption. This is why Russian populations consume vodka in extreme cold climates. Not primarily for recreational purposes, but for thermal regulation and morale maintenance."
Yuki stared at her. "You want us to drink vodka. To stay warm."
"I'm presenting it as an option. Not a mandate. Though statistically, it increases comfort levels in prolonged cold exposure by measurable margins."
"That's insane," Adrian repeated.
"Insane would be allowing hypothermia to develop during extended cold exposure when preventive measures exist." Aveline gestured toward the shuttered windows. "Storm duration: unknown. Could be one day. Could be four. Heating capacity: depleted except for this single fireplace. Sleeping arrangements: compromised. Vodka increases survivability probability and reduces discomfort by approximately nineteen percent in prolonged cold conditions."
Adrian and Yuki exchanged glances.
"I'm very skeptical," Adrian said slowly.
"Skepticism is reasonable. However, passive acceptance of deteriorating conditions is not." Aveline's eyes were sharp. "What's your alternative plan? Huddle near the fireplace indefinitely? Sleep deprivation reduces cognitive function, immune response, and threat assessment capacity. Cold stress compounds these effects exponentially."
Silence.
She was right.
They didn't have a better plan.
"So what," Yuki said finally, voice edged with frustration, "we just sit here doing nothing? Like chickens... laying eggs?"
Aveline's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Almost amusement.
"Accurate metaphor. Unproductive. Wasteful. Chickens at least produce eggs. You're producing nothing except complaints."
"Wow," Yuki muttered.
More silence.
The fire crackled, sending sparks up the chimney.
Wind howled outside like a wounded animal.
"There's another issue," Aveline said after a moment.
"Of course there is," Adrian muttered under his breath.
"Your survival skills are severely deficient." She looked between them with that clinical assessment that felt like being x-rayed. "You can't cook beyond basic toast. You required forty-two minutes to complete a task I finished in thirty. You possess the self-preservation instincts of discarded fast food packaging."
"That's," Yuki started.
"Accurate," Aveline interrupted.
"Observation, not insult. Facts don't care about your feelings."
"Did you just quote Ben Shapiro?" Adrian asked, horrified.
"No. I'm stating objective reality. Emotional responses don't change capability deficiencies." She turned toward the hallway. "Since we're confined here with no operational capacity and declining external conditions, I'll teach you basic survival protocols. Starting with combat fundamentals."
Adrian sat up straighter. "Combat?"
"You're an NPU agent. Your hand-to-hand proficiency is adequate for law enforcement contexts. Not exceptional, but functional against untrained opponents." She looked at Yuki. "You, however, are completely untrained. Liability in any hostile engagement scenario. Yesterday's self-defense basics were minimal. We need to expand that foundation significantly."
Yuki's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to learn."
"Trying is insufficient. Results matter." Aveline moved toward the door. "We have time. No communications. No external obligations. Optimal training conditions, actually. Controlled environment, no interruptions, motivated students."
"Motivated by not freezing to death," Adrian muttered.
"Motivation source is irrelevant. Outcome matters." She paused in the doorway. "Gym. Fifteen minutes. Dress appropriately. If you're going to be useless, you'll at least be useless with basic combat competency."
She disappeared into the hallway.
Adrian and Yuki sat there, staring at the fire.
"She shot you in the face last night," Yuki said quietly.
"Yeah."
"And now she's going to teach us how to fight."
"Yeah."
"While we're trapped in her mansion during a blizzard."
"Yeah."
"This is absolutely insane."
"Yeah."
The fire crackled.
Outside, snow kept falling.
And somewhere in this massive, cold mansion, Aveline was probably already in the gym, setting up training equipment with mechanical efficiency, completely unbothered by the apocalyptic weather or the fact that she'd casually shot her partner less than twelve hours ago.
"Well," Adrian said finally, standing up and stretching. "At least we won't be bored."
"That's your takeaway? We won't be bored?"
"Small mercies, Yuki. Small mercies."
They headed toward the gym.
Because what else were they going to do?
Aveline was right about one thing: sitting around like useless chickens wasn't going to help anyone.
And if they were going to survive this storm, and whatever came after, they needed to be less useless.
Even if that meant learning combat techniques from someone who treated shooting people like a reasonable response to being woken up.
Progress came in strange forms.
This was just stranger than most.