I glance around.
It’s technically a kitchen. But it feels like a storage unit pretending to be one.
Metal table. Metal chairs.
Stainless steel appliances that look like they’ve never been touched by actual food.
No magnets. No dishes drying. No crumbs. No life.
Even the air feels cold. I drag a chair back and sit. It wobbles immediately.
One leg is shorter than the others.
I rock slightly. Forward. Back.
Forward.
Back.
“Pay attention,” Vaska says.
I look up at him.
“To what? You don’t have anything in here.”
He stares.
“Shut up and stop moving.”
I sigh dramatically and stop rocking. “Okay.”
He reaches up and flips the light switch. It flickers twice before settling into a dull buzz overhead.
I tilt my head, studying it.
“Is everything in your house broken?”
His jaw tightens. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
He sits across from me. The metal legs scrape against the floor. It echoes.God, this place is depressing.
“Sure,” I say brightly. “Go ahead.”
“What’s your full name?”
I blink at him.
“It’s on my resume.”
“Say it.”
I smile sweetly.
“Ayla Leyla Smith.”
His stare doesn’t change. The light hums above us.
“How old are you?”
