Dahmer swung his long legs out of bed, snatched a silk robe from the chaise lounge, and tied it around his waist. He stormed out of the master bedroom, his slippers clicking furiously against the floor as he headed downstairs to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, the doors of the mansion's kitchen swung open. Malcolm followed behind him slowly, his frame wrapped in a velvet robe. He walked with a slow, deliberate, almost regal stride, completely unbothered by his internal discomfort now that he had successfully ruined Dahmer's night. Malcolm glided over to the breakfast bar, pulling out a stool and sitting down nearby, propping his chin in his hand as he watched the Enigma with a cold, expectant glare.
Dahmer stood in the center of the kitchen, looking completely out of his depth. He had an ancient culinary textbook pulled up on a holographic tablet, his silver eyes rapidly scanning the terrifyingly complex instructions for the hot-water pastry crust.
