Her hands work independently, one measuring flour while the other checks spice jars, taste-testing with quick dabs of her finger. She's building something complex, I realize. Multiple components that will somehow become a unified whole. The strategy reminds me of coordinating different warrior units in battle, each with their own timing and purpose.
Why am I thinking in battle terms?The question disturbs me more than it should.
"Korgan, darling," Jessica's voice resounds through my observation. "You should watchallthe contestants, not just one."
She's right, of course. The cameras are recording my every expression, looking for drama, for evidence of favoritism. I force myself to turn away from Trinity's station, to observe the vampire attempting what appears to be a blood-orange tart,the werewolf wrestling with a stand mixer that clearly wasn't designed for claws.
But my awareness keeps circling back to Trinity like a compass finding north.
Twenty minutes in, disaster strikes at the station beside hers. Lane, a stocky human with nervous energy, has attempted some kind of multi-tiered cake construction that's now swaying ominously. The top tier tilts, threatening to cascade frosting and shame across half the kitchen.
Trinity glances up from her own work, some kind of pastry shells that smell like cardamom and promise, and I see her weighing options. Help a competitor and risk her own timing, or let him fail and remove potential competition.
She chooses help, naturally. Because of course she does.
"Lane, grab the bottom," she calls out, not pausing in her own piping technique. "Steady pressure, don't overthink it."
But Lane is panicking, his movements jerky and uncertain. The cake tilts further.
Before I fully register the decision, I'm moving.
Three steps bring me to Lane's station. My hand closes over the wobbling cake stand, steadying it with the barest pressure while Lane fumbles for proper support. The motion is subtle from camera angles, it probably looks like I'm simply observing closely.
"Breathe," I tell Lane in a low voice. "Panic makes hands shake. Steady the base first, then worry about decoration."
Trinity shoots me a surprised look over her pastry shells.
I don't examine that too closely.
Lane manages to stabilize his creation, muttering thanks. I retreat to my designated observation area, ignoring Jessica's sharp stare. She probably caught the intervention, but calling it out would mean admitting her precious show needed outside assistance.
Strategic misdirection,I tell myself.Nothing more.
The lie feels hollow.
Forty minutes pass. Trinity has produced what appears to be delicate pastry cups filled with some kind of mousse, garnished with crystallized ginger and what might be candied citrus. The presentation is elegant, sophisticated, restaurant quality, not reality TV panic-cooking.
But I notice her favoring her left hand, shaking it out between tasks. A minor injury, probably from the earlier flour explosion when she grabbed the hot mixing bowl too quickly. Nothing dramatic, but in a timed competition, minor inefficiencies compound.
She's reaching for a high shelf, stretching for powdered sugar that some thoughtless producer has placed just beyond comfortable reach. The ladder provided for shorter contestants sits three stations away, currently occupied by someone else. Trinity considers asking for help, dismisses the idea, stretches higher.
The stepladder at her station has one loose rung. I spotted it during the initial setup, sloppy maintenance that could mean a twisted ankle or worse if weight hits it wrong.
I'm moving again before conscious thought intervenes.
"The sugar is better from the lower shelf," I say, positioning myself beside the stepladder as Trinity reaches for it. "Less processed. More interesting texture."
It's complete bullshit, powdered sugar is powdered sugar, but it gives her an excuse to reconsider her reach without losing face.
She pauses, studies my expression, then nods slowly. "You're right. Thanks."
Crisis averted. No twisted ankles, no ruined dishes, no dramatic medical interventions that would disrupt filming. Itell myself it's simple risk management, protecting the show's investment.
The lie feels even more hollow this time.
"Fifteen minutes remaining!" the judge announces.
Trinity shifts into a gear I didn't know existed. Her movements become economy itself, no wasted motion, no hesitation, each action flowing into the next like a choreographed sequence. She's plating now, and watching her arrange components is like watching an artist work. Each element placed with purpose, building toward something greater than its parts.
