CHAPTER 47: BEEF STEW

The smell of beef stew clung to Tanya’s apartment like it owned the place.

A delightful smell of richness, savory, and heavy seasonings.

I sat there, cross-legged on her sofa, watching steam drift from a wide cast-iron pot on the stove. She’d left it simmering since morning, she told me, right before we ran into each other on that stupid bus.

The thing looked prehistoric, like a black cauldron rescued from some knight’s dungeon, yet Tanya moved around it with this quiet, controlled rhythm that made the whole scene look... elegant. Quite precise, the knife against cutting board went. She used a spoon to scrape the sides, then echoed the clink of a lid when she closed it back. Tanya had sleeves rolled to her elbows and an apron tied over her shirt.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cook before, not since a million years, it was quite mesmerizing to see.

"Sit still," she said, not looking at me, when I kept shifting on the couch. Her voice was flat as ever, though there was something faintly amused about it, like she already knew I was useless at being patient, "You’re going to eat something now that you’re in my apartment."

"I’m sitting still," I muttered, my fingers were halfway into my mouth before I caught myself biting at them again.

She ignored me. Instead, she ladled the stew, lifted it to eye level, checked the consistency like it was some science experiment.

The smell made me dizzy, the faintest smell of beef, onions, potatoes, garlic. Something herbal... bay leaves maybe? Or thyme? I didn’t know, my entire cooking expertise stopped at pasting butter onto steak after flipping.

"You... actually made this?" I asked, dumbly.

"No," Tanya deadpanned. "A shark with shoes dropped it off."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t even fire back properly because she tasted the broth and adjusted it with a pinch of salt so natural it almost hurt to watch, like my whole life I’d been missing something simple everyone else knew.

For some reason my chest got tight.

And then it hit me, hard and ugly, like a sucker punch: No one had ever cooked for me like this before.

Not my exes, not any of the women I’d clumsily molest and lost, not even myself.

Something burned at the back of my throat and I looked away fast, pressing my palm into my eye. Jesus Christ, I was tearing up over a fucking stew for no reason... Maybe it was just the fatigue after having sex talking, but still, why the hell am I getting the special aftercare treatment? Do I need to pay up?

"Don’t cry yet," Tanya said behind me, like she could read my mind. "I haven’t even served it."

I wanted to chuckle, or punch her, or both.

When she finally placed a steaming hot bowl in front of me, I felt it was almost ceremonial. Thick chunks of beef falling apart at the seams, potatoes that practically melted at the touch of a spoon, carrots glowing orange in the broth.

She set her own bowl down opposite mine and sat, straight-backed, and looked at me, inviting me to start first.

I muttered a thanks, too quiet, then blew on the spoonful and shoved it in my mouth before I could embarrass myself further.

It was good. It was really good.

Like warm comfort pouring down my throat, seeping into bones I didn’t even know were cold. Like something stolen from a life I’d never had, and that hurt, honest to god it actually hurt, because I realized this stupid beef stew in a random apartment was what I needed all along to rest easy on my shoulders.

"Don’t choke," Tanya said.

"I’m not-" I swallowed hard, blinking fast. "Shut up."

We ate in silence for a while. I hated that she could probably see every stupid flicker of emotion on my face, while she sat there expressionless as always, her cold smile flickering at the edges like she already understood everything.

I sat with the bowl cupped in both hands, the steam rising into my face, cheeks already wet and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the broth’s heat or because of the damn lump forming in my throat. The stew was still too hot, burning the roof of my mouth, but I swallowed anyway because... well, I wanted to. Because I didn’t want to look weak. Because it tasted like something I hadn’t even realized I wanted.

"This is..." I tried, then stopped, then pushed another spoonful in, chewing hard so I wouldn’t have to say anything else.

Tanya didn’t press, she just sat across from me, sleeves rolled up, spoon in one hand, posture perfectly straight like she was dining at some high-end café instead of this small apartment kitchen... She would make great friends with Eirlys Sonder, I’d say.

She ate slowly, like she had all the time in the world, her face that same unreadable mask she always wore. Then finally, she looked at me, expression unchanged, she spoke:

"You should stop doing what you’re doing."

"What I’m doing?" I blinked.

Her spoon clicked softly against the bowl.

"Selling pictures, rotting at home, waiting for checks. You know what I am referring to."

I stared at her, a little slack-jawed, stew dribbling down the edge of my spoon. "Are you... seriously? You’re gonna lecture me?"

"It isn’t sustainable," she said, not even bothering to match my rising voice, her tone was level and clipped, "It will hurt you more the longer you keep at it. Not physically or emotionally, so you wouldn’t catch it, but it will hurt you in ways unthinkable"

I wanted to laugh, I wanted to slam my bowl down and let the stew spill everywhere just to see if she’d flinch.

"Wow. You, YOU? Of all people, sitting there like the picture of moral authority... God, you’ve got some nerve."

"I didn’t say I was better." She calmly scooped another bite. "Difference between us is that I know where my path leads, and you don’t."

That... that one hit me sideways. My chest burned, and it wasn’t the stew anymore.

I wanted to scream, but instead my brain exploded inward. She admits it like it’s nothing, she says it like the weather, like, ’oh, it might rain tomorrow, and by the way, yes, I’m a prostitute.’ And here she is; calm, clean apartment, well-fed, time to cook, time to play, time to smile at me like none of it matters.

"You don’t get it," I said, jabbing my spoon in the air like a weapon. "My life isn’t bad, I’m not suffering, I don’t need fixing."

Her eyes flicked to the spoon, then back to me. "Then why are you crying?"

I froze, I hated her for saying it so quietly and so simply.

I sniffed hard, slammed the spoon back in my bowl. "Because... because..." I swallowed, frustrated, words tangling in my throat. "Because no one ever cooks for me, alright? I don’t get this. I don’t deserve this. And you, you sitting there acting like you know me? Like you know what’s better for me? You don’t know anything!"

Tanya tilted her head, studying me with that same cold patience, the kind that made me feel like a bug trapped under glass. She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t move faster. Just ate another bite, calm as ever, like I wasn’t storming across the table.

"You enjoy easy money," she said finally. "But it isn’t real. It buys time you don’t know how to use, that time will rot you. It already is."

Her words came like needles. Precise and piercing, not even long enough to argue with properly.

And god, I hated how it got to me. These simple ragebaits she was throwing at me.

She doesn’t know what it’s like, does she? Sitting in your room at 3AM, staring at the glow of your screen, wondering if the picture you posted is good enough to make someone pay. Wondering if your thighs are worth ten dollars. Wondering if anyone even looked. But then the money drops, easy money. And you laugh, and you think maybe this isn’t such a bad life. Sure, you haven’t showered in two days, but you’re not dead, are you? You’re fine... You’re fine, better than fine, people would kill for this, for doing nothing and still living.

But across from me was Tanya, spoon scraping slow circles at the bottom of her bowl, not even looking smug, not even trying to win. Just... eating, like none of this was an argument.

"You’re unbelievable," I muttered, throat tight. "You squat my name, you leave me to get mugged on the bus so I lost my wallet, you... hell, you sell yourself for cash, literal sex, and the people who uses your service know your face, and now you’re sitting here pretending you’ve got the moral high ground? Over me?"

Tanya set her spoon down, her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t waver.

"I don’t have the high ground." She leaned back, arms folding loosely over her chest. "But I can see the cliff you’re standing on."

And that was it, no follow-up and no explanation, literally just that. Her tone was steady, maddeningly steady, like my anger was a pebble she could just step over.

The stew that had felt like comfort minutes ago now felt heavy in my stomach, like I’d swallowed a stone. I stared at her, this woman who had fucked me, fed me, and then cut me open with a single suggestion.

"...Thanks for the meal, I’ll try to repay it, maybe with ingame items" I muttered, forcing the words out like glass splinters, and I stood up so fast the legs screeched against the floor.

Her gaze followed me but she didn’t move.

I shoved my shoes on by the door, teeth clenched, throat tight. "I’ll... I’ll see you around."

The door slammed louder than I meant it to, but I didn’t go back.

Outside, the sun was high and brutal, the street too bright, too normal for the storm in my chest.

I hated how right she thought she was, I hated how much it hurt to realize she might not be completely wrong. But more than anything, I hated myself for being a bitch about it.

By the time I got onto another bus, all I could think about was logging in tonight with Hailie, finishing that damn Cleric quest. Because at least there, in that other world, I knew who I was supposed to be, and I can stab whoever argues.