Pitbabe S2, Chapter 27 pg 2

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 27 pg 2

   Tony got Kenta out of prison using his favorite method: connections. Kenta said he wasn’t thrilled about being released, but he had no choice but to follow Tony’s orders, including accepting punishment for betrayal, delivered by the hands (and feet) of his adoptive father.

   Tony beat Kenta as if that was the main reason he’d pulled his trusted “son” out of prison, after letting him rest for two full years. Kenta could do nothing but bow his head, accepting the verdict and punishment from the boss, bound by conditions as tight as shackles unseen even in prison.

   Kenta could live as a normal person only under Tony’s rule. The moment he resisted, defied, or thought of becoming an enemy, his status would shift to fugitive.

   So Kenta had to keep serving as Tony’s lackey, even though his heart despised him like a centipede or worm.

   I’m convinced someone as rough as Tony must have some psychopathic tendencies running through his veins. Even I, who haven’t seen him in the two years since everything went down, can tell he’s completely lost all trust and affection he once had for Kenta. And yet, instead of letting that traitor slip out of his orbit or just getting rid of him entirely, he chooses to keep him close, cluttering up his space. It’s like he’s constantly on edge, having to watch his back because he’s willingly harboring a snake in his own house.

   If I were in Tony’s position right now,.'

   I’d have dealt with Kenta already—no loose ends, no worries about leaks, and a satisfying way to settle the score for such a brutal betrayal. There’s no way I’d handle it like Tony.

   Hating someone but refusing to let them go—that’s why I say he’s psychotic.

   That said, taking in a stray cat wasn’t something I ever planned on doing. Especially not a bad-tempered one that had bitten me hard enough to draw blood before. But that day… his eyes were different. It was like he’d shed all his claws and fangs. The cat didn’t rub against my legs or beg to be taken home, but the way he looked at me made it feel like he was just an empty shell, fragile on the outside, hollow on the inside, yearning to be filled. I’m certain I’d never seen Kenta like that before.

   After that, everything seemed to fast-forward. In the blink of an eye, Kenta’s belongings were scattered across nearly every corner of my apartment. His glass sat next to mine, his toothbrush hung beside mine. Everything that used to be singular was suddenly duplicated, like my place had been hit by some magical Doraemon gadget.

   Before I knew it, my bookshelf was overflowing with cookbooks from all over the world.

   Because that cat said he never knew what food that smelled like home tasted like.

   I don’t know what “home” smells like either, but I figured he probably wanted food made with care, not just thrown together with spices.

   “Can we have stuffed omelets today?”

   The stray cat, now promoted to house cat, asked.

   “We just had that yesterday,” I said, furrowing my brow in confusion. Kenta had just gotten back from some errand (probably meeting Tony again, as usual) and hadn’t even set his bag down for three seconds. Now he was leaning over the back of the couch, hovering over me, asking for the same dish we’d had yesterday. There were still diced carrots left in the fridge, for crying out loud.

   “So?” Kenta blinked rapidly, no hint of teasing in his expression. He genuinely seemed clueless as to why I was acting like eating the same thing two days in a row was a big deal. To be fair, it’s not that strange, but… I don’t know. Why was he so fixated on the same dishes? What was the point of me learning new recipes then? “Can’t we have it again?”

   “No one’s stopping you,” I replied lazily. “Just wondering if you’re not bored of it.”

   “Nope.”

   When did his face start looking so innocent? How had I never noticed before?

   “You really want it again?” I asked again, feeling a strange tug in my chest. “I can make other stuff, you know.”

   “What else can you make?”

   “See! You don’t actually want it,” I said, narrowing my eyes and pointing at him accusingly. Just as I suspected—he didn’t love stuffed omelets so much that he needed to eat them nonstop. He was only asking for the same thing because he thought I only knew how to make a few dishes.

   “No…” Kenta denied softly, “I’m asking because I want to know what else you’ve been practicing.”

   “A lot of things,” I replied proudly.

   “Like?”

   “Kimchi fried rice.”

   “A dish from home?”

   “Well, I’ve never made it myself.”

   The Japanese guy stared at me silently. He seemed to be weighing whether to speak or not. I stared back, waiting expectantly. We locked eyes like that for several seconds before Kenta looked away first. He let out a soft sigh and said flatly, “From now on, I think we should take turns cooking.”

   “Why?” That was an offer I didn’t expect from Kenta, especially after he’d once said he wanted to try eating food someone else made for him with care. “Is my cooking that bad?”

   “No,” he said, lightly pushing my head.

   “Then why?”

   “Why do you think?” When I kept pressing, Kenta started to look a bit annoyed. He stared at me for about three or four seconds before grabbing my wrist and holding it up. “Look at this.”

   I looked at my hand, which he’d raised to show off. I’ll admit, the bandages didn’t make my hand look great. It was in worse shape than when I was learning to drive. At least racers wear gloves all the time, but an amateur chef can’t wear gloves. You face the knife or the fire with bare hands, so the condition isn’t pretty. But I swear, these are the wounds of a true warrior.

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