CHAPTER 69: PUNISHMENT

The voice was sharp enough to make both of us jump.

It was the nanny.

The corridor was a mess.

Water everywhere. Buckets on their sides. Streaks of brown and black across what had once been a perfectly polished floor. It looked less like cleaning duty and more like the aftermath of a tavern brawl.

And in the middle of it stood Freya and me, soaked to the skin, holding our mops like swords caught mid-duel.

The nanny stopped dead, her mouth hanging open. For three long seconds, nobody moved.

Then her eyes locked on me.

"You," she hissed.

I pointed at Freya immediately. "Her fault."

"What—!" Freya sputtered. "You tripped, you spilled, you—"

"Ah-ah," I cut in, raising my mop like a witness taking an oath. "All I did was attempt teamwork. She’s the one who challenged me to mortal combat with cleaning tools."

Freya’s jaw dropped so low I thought it might hit the floor.

The nanny’s glare flicked between us, her face growing redder by the second.

"This hall was supposed to be spotless!" she roared. "SPOTLESS! And now it looks like a pigsty after a rainstorm!"

I scratched my chin thoughtfully. "Technically, pigs are cleaner than—"

"Silence!"

The mop was yanked out of my hands so fast I barely felt it go. Freya flinched as the nanny’s other hand snatched hers, too. Both mops clattered against the wall.

Then came the worst part.

She shoved two new buckets in front of us. Fresh water, gleaming and cruel.

"Again," the nanny said darkly. "From the start. And this time... if I see so much as one streak, I’ll have you polishing floors with your tongues."

Freya groaned, pressing her palms over her face.

I sighed, looking at the endless stretch of dirty, wet corridor. "Well," I muttered, "at least we’re bonding."

Freya’s muffled scream of frustration nearly shook the walls.

But the nanny wasn’t finished.

She leaned down, her shadow falling over us like a storm cloud. Her eyes were sharp, cold, and heavy, the kind that pinned you in place even if you wanted to run.

"And after this," she said slowly, her voice dripping like poison, "you two will cook dinner."

I blinked. I thought I’d misheard. Dinner?

Freya’s hands slid down her face. She peeked between her fingers, her eyes wide. "Dinner... for who?"

The nanny smiled. And not the kind of smile you want to see. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t gentle. It was the kind of smile that made the back of my neck prickle, like she enjoyed watching prisoners beg for mercy.

"For your dorm," she said, each word sharp. "All five of you. Tonight."

The world stopped.

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. I must’ve looked like a fish dragged out of water. "You mean... we cook? As in... real food? The kind people actually put in their mouths?"

"YES," the nanny snapped, loud enough to make me flinch. "And if anyone goes hungry, it’s your heads."

I swear my stomach sank straight through the floor. Cook? I barely trusted myself to boil water without causing a small-scale disaster. If fire and explosions counted as seasoning, then sure—I was a chef. Otherwise? No chance.

Beside me, Freya finally dropped her hands and spun to glare at me, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks like dark ribbons. "This is your fault."

I raised my eyebrows, trying to look calm, though my insides were already screaming. "Correction—this is teamwork. Shared suffering. A bonding exercise, really."

Her groan was long and loud, the kind that could peel paint off walls. She threw her head back like the ceiling had wronged her personally.

Meanwhile, my brain was running in circles. Dinner for five. Five actual human beings. Which meant five mouths. Five stomachs. Five lives depending on me not killing them with undercooked meat.

Wonderful.

Out of all the punishments in the world, this one felt the cruelest. Cleaning floors? Fine. That was just sweat. Cooking dinner? That was potential murder.

I stole a glance at Freya. She looked ready to strangle me with the mop handle. Which, honestly, might be less painful than the shame of poisoning half our dorm.

I sighed, shoulders slumping. "Well," I muttered under my breath, "at least if we burn the kitchen down, it’ll be together."

Her answering glare could have set me on fire already.

***

By the time we finished, the corridor looked less like a battlefield and more like a shrine to soap and suffering. The floor gleamed so much I could see my reflection staring back at me—pale, exhausted, and very much regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

My arms felt like wet rags. My back ached like I’d carried bricks up a mountain. My fingers had gone soft and wrinkled, the skin pruned from scrubbing water for what felt like centuries.

Freya slumped against the wall, her mop sliding down with a sad squeak. Strands of hair clung to her forehead, damp and shining. She didn’t even try to look dignified anymore.

"Done," she muttered. Her voice was flat. Broken. The sound of someone who had seen the abyss and waved politely at it.

I leaned on my bucket like it was a cane. "If hell has floors, I’m sure they look exactly like this."

She shot me a look but didn’t argue. Too tired. A rare blessing.

I stared down the corridor, polished from end to end, every corner shining under the lamps. Honestly, it was beautiful. If I wasn’t half-dead, I’d probably admire it. Instead, I wanted to spit on it out of spite.

All this work... only to have more work waiting. Dinner.

My stomach twisted. Cooking for five. Five whole people. Not just me burning toast in some alley or stealing bread off a cart. Real food. For real humans. Who might actually complain.

The idea made scrubbing floors feel like a holiday.

"She’s going to kill us," I muttered under my breath.

Freya groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I can’t believe this is happening."

I could. My life was basically a series of unfortunate chores strung together with sarcastic commentary.

The corridor sparkled. Our souls did not.

And waiting just beyond this misery... was the kitchen.