Karl exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "No."
Chillie Jean arched an elegant brow. "No?"
He leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms. "Rebecca’s a housewife. She doesn’t work. Johnson is the only thing keeping her financially stable. If I expose the affair... then what?"
Chillie made a thoughtful noise, tapping her gloved fingers against her cheek. "Ah, yes. The tragic tale of the dependent housewife—so delicate, so fragile. Mustn’t let her suffer, must we?"
Karl’s jaw tightened. "It’s not about that."
"Isn’t it?" Chillie let out a slow, mocking chuckle. "Oh, how noble you are, Lord of Fries. Sparing the poor, clueless wife from the harsh truth. Letting her continue playing the role of a happy little fool while her dear husband buries himself between another woman’s thighs."
Karl scowled but didn’t answer.
Chillie’s smirk widened. She leaned in, her golden eyes gleaming with malicious amusent.
"Tell , dear Karl... is this pity? Or have you—gasp—fallen for the wife of another man?"
Karl didn’t react.
But that only made Chillie giggle behind her hand, her expression dripping with wicked delight.
"Oh, this is positively tragic," she purred. "The great Lord of Fries, reduced to pining after a married woman. How pitiful."
Karl shot her a glare. "I don’t pine for anyone."
Chillie’s smirk didn’t falter. "Oh, but you care."
Silence.
Karl hated that she wasn’t wrong.
Rebecca was a fool, but she was kind. She didn’t deserve this.
And yet, she had no power. No money. No way to survive without Johnson.
If he tore her world apart, what would happen to her?
Would Johnson cast her aside like garbage? Would she struggle to survive, forced to crawl back to her cheating husband because she had no other choice?
Karl clenched his fists.
No.
He wasn’t going to ruin her.
He wasn’t going to save her, either.
He would just—watch.
Chillie Jean sighed dramatically. "Oh, how romantic~."
Karl scoffed. "Shut up."
She laughed. "As you wish, my tragic little Lord of Unrequited Love~."
Karl closed his eyes.
He hated her.
He hated Maria.
He hated Johnson.
But most of all...
He hated the fact that he cared about Rebbeca.
The next day, Karl returned to his usual routine at the fast-food restaurant. The scent of sizzling grease, the sound of the fryer bubbling, and the endless beeping of tirs ford a familiar, mind-numbing rhythm. He worked the register, took orders, flipped burgers, and wiped down trays—just another shift in the endless cycle of minimum-wage drudgery.
By the ti his shift ended, his uniform reeked of oil and artificial cheese, his body exhausted but his mind restless.
The bus ride ho was quiet, the dim interior filled with the soft hum of the engine and the occasional murmur of conversation. Karl leaned against the window, watching the city blur past, his mind drifting.
Maybe I was wrong.
The thought had been gnawing at him ever since last night.
Yes, he had assud Maria and Johnson were having an affair. He knew Johnson wasn’t the most faithful husband, and Maria... well, she had always played her cards too well.
But had he actually seen anything?
No.
All he had was a mory—Maria and Johnson sitting together at a café. Having a al. Laughing.
Nothing incriminating. Nothing obvious.
Maybe it wasn’t what I thought.
Maybe they were planning sothing for Rebecca. A surprise. An event. A gift. Anything.
It was possible. It was rational.
For the first ti in a long while, Karl let himself entertain the idea that maybe—just maybe—he had been wrong.
That maybe, for once, things weren’t as fucked up as they seed.
That maybe, the world wasn’t just an endless pit of deception and cruelty.
And then—
He saw them.
Through the window, in the fading evening light, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure standing by the entrance of an upscale hotel.
Maria.
And beside her—
Johnson.
Holding her hand.
Not in so friendly, casual way. Not as two old acquaintances reconnecting.
It was intimate.
Fingers laced together. A quiet, secretive gesture.
The way Maria smiled up at him, the way Johnson leaned in just slightly—
Karl’s stomach twisted.
His brief mont of doubt—the fragile, fleeting hope that he had misjudged them—shattered into a thousand pieces.
No more excuses.
No more justifications.
They were fucking liars.
Karl stepped into his apartnt, tossing his keys onto the table with a heavy sigh. The weight of what he had just seen pressed down on him like a brick on his chest.
Maria and Johnson. Hand in hand.
Any lingering doubts had been crushed under the weight of cold, undeniable reality.
He wasn’t even surprised. He had known. He had always known.
And yet... it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Before he could dwell on it any further, a familiar voice called out.
"Karl!"
He turned toward the hallway, and there she was—Rebecca, standing at his door with an eager smile on her face.
"Oh, hey," he greeted, forcing his expression into sothing neutral.
"I was hoping I’d catch you!" she bead, stepping closer. "I have to tell you sothing!"
Karl sighed internally but played along. "What is it?"
Rebecca’s face practically glowed with happiness. "Johnson surprised today! He got a brand new oven and all these amazing baking ingredients!"
Karl froze.
"He really pays attention, you know?" Rebecca continued, her voice dripping with affection. "I ntioned wanting to bake more, and he just... did this for ! I feel so lucky."
Karl’s jaw clenched. His nails dug into his palm.
Lucky.
That was the word she used.
Because her husband—the sa man who had just been holding another woman’s hand—bought her a fucking oven.
How thoughtful.
Karl forced a nod, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. "That’s... great, Rebecca."
"It is, isn’t it?" she giggled. "Anyway, I was going to try it out tonight! Do you want to co over? I could use a taste-tester."
He should have said no.
He should have made an excuse.
But sothing in him—so dark, twisted part—wanted to see just how deep this delusion ran.
"Sure," he said. "Why not?"
---
Rebecca’s apartnt slled like vanilla and warm sugar when they stepped inside. The new oven glead under the kitchen lights, the counters neatly lined with bags of flour, chocolate, and other baking essentials.
Karl leaned against the counter, watching as she excitedly shuffled through her ingredients.
"Where’s your son?" he asked casually.
Rebecca glanced up, setting a mixing bowl down. "Oh, he’s staying over at a friend’s place tonight. Probably a little party or sothing." She chuckled, shaking her head. "Teenagers, right?"
Karl humd in acknowledgnt. "And Johnson?"
Rebecca waved a hand dismissively. "Busy with such a big project. He’ll be back tomorrow."
Karl bit the inside of his cheek.
Ah, yes. A big project.
Or maybe a big ass.
A cruel laugh bubbled up in his throat, but he kept it locked down, smirking only to himself.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "A huge project."
Rebecca didn’t catch the sarcasm. She just smiled, oblivious to the sick joke playing in Karl’s head.
And for the first ti, Karl truly wondered—
Was ignorance really bliss?
Because Rebecca looked so happy.
And it made him sick.
Karl excused himself, offering Rebecca a half-hearted smile before slipping down the hall toward the bathroom.
The mont he locked the door behind him, his mask of neutrality dropped. His smirk twisted into sothing darker, sothing bitter.
He pulled out his phone.
The familiar interface of the Common Sense Manipulation App flickered to life on the screen, the deep crimson glow casting eerie shadows along the tiled walls.
And then—
She appeared.
Chillie Jean materialized in his phone screen, lounging in an invisible chair as if she had been waiting for him. Her crimson gown cascaded elegantly over the nonexistent furniture, her golden eyes gleaming with unfiltered amusent.
"Oh my, my, my," she purred, twirling a lock of golden hair between her gloved fingers. "Lord of Fries seeks refuge in the lavatory. Dare I ask why? Perhaps he has finally accepted his fate as a re—oh, how do the modern plebeians say it—cuckold observer?"
Karl exhaled sharply through his nose, his lips curling into a smirk.
"Not quite," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the phone screen. "More like... considering my next move."
Chillie Jean leaned forward, resting her chin on her gloved palm. "Oh? And what move might that be, hmm? Taking care of soone else’s big-ass wife?"
Karl grinned.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I’ll treat her with respect."
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