Morning light filtered through the window, but to Neville, the glow did nothing but make his heavy eyelids feel leaden. He stirred around, annoyed, but nothing motivated him to leave the bed.

"It’s a work day," he muttered, voice rough and low from sleep. The words felt like gravel in his mouth.

His body refused to move. Muscles barely twitched, bones felt dense and immovable—even the simple act of breathing felt like forced labor.

He stared at the ceiling, watching sunlight creep across the white surface.

A heavy discomfort settled in his chest.

I really don’t want to go to work today.

He pondered it for a silent moment, then gave a tiny, decisive nod.

"Shelly, tell Sarah I’m skipping the morning shift."

Shelly materialized beside his pillow, her bright digital eyes blinking with concern. She gave a playful salute, her whole shell of a body tilting dramatically.

[Right away, host!]

A moment later, she zipped back, hovering close to his face.

[The message has been sent. Why aren’t you getting up, host?]

I’m just tired, Neville thought, keeping his mental shields up so she couldn’t read too much. Exhausted... or maybe just a little depressed.

The thought left a bitter taste. Depression was a luxury he couldn’t afford to have right now—not with everything he still had to do. But the weight pressing on his chest refused to budge.

He didn’t have the energy to work, but he couldn’t not work either.

Half a day off would have to do. It was the best he could manage. Disappearing without notice would be unprofessional. Besides, using illness as an excuse was pointless. The dormitory bots could issue a verified medical certificate within minutes if he were genuinely sick. His lie would be easily disproven.

Neville forced himself to sit up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The motion alone made his head spin. He stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water against his palms. He cupped his hands, brought the chill to his face, and rubbed the skin roughly.

Once. Twice. Three times. Then he slapped his cheeks—hard. The sharp sting jolted him back a little.

Come on, snap out of it. Throw that mess out of your head.

He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing the paste like it owed him money. The bristles scraped against his teeth as he brushed, his mind looping back to the one thought he didn’t want to have.

But really... This is so damn annoying. He paused, jaw tightening, biting the toothbrush on his mouth. It’s all Grayson’s fault.

[Host?] Shelly’s voice carried a note of worry, a sound Neville found oddly comforting.

Neville spat into the sink and rinsed. He then reached out, his fingers grabbed the floating shell. His fingers closed around her smooth surface. He pulled her into a tight, almost suffocating hug against his chest.

"Hugging you is the best." He exclaimed, rubbing his cheeks on Shelly’s head.

Shelly wiggled slightly, nuzzling deeper into his embrace.

[Of course, host! Your guide, Shelly, is optimized for mental care. My primary duty is to relieve you of anything bothering you.]

A smile crept across Neville’s face—the kind that made most people instinctively take a step back and run hard in the opposite direction.

"Is that so?" Neville’s voice dropped, becoming a low, conspiratorial purr. "Then can you relieve me from the mess of a person named Grayson?"

Shelly froze. Her animated eyes went comically wide, and little sweat emoticons popped up and shimmered around her shell body, making her look like she had been tossed into a literal furnace.

[Uhm, host... Shelly handles your problems. Host handles... Grayson’s problems? It’s... a little...]

"Grayson doesn’t have problems." Neville interrupted, his smile stretching wider, devoid of true mirth. "He is the problem. If there’s no problem, there’s no need for me, your host, to exist. So—either you make me disappear or you make him disappear. Choose."

The sweat emoticons multiplied like wildfire, practically drowning the little Shelly. Her googly eyes darted hard to the side, refusing to meet his intense gaze.

[Uhm, host. I think someone’s calling me—oh! And you still have to prepare meals, right? So... pop!]

She vanished in a flash of digital light.

Laughter bubbled up from Neville’s chest, genuine and unburdened. The sound filled the small bathroom, echoing against the tiles. For a second, the heaviness on his chest lifted.

Yeah, this was it. The best stress relief wasn’t sleep, or food, or meditation. It was having Shelly around. She didn’t do much beyond existing and being incredibly adorable, but somehow, that was enough to clear his head. The fun in the sheer panic he put her through was a bonus.

Feeling lighter, Neville wandered to the kitchen area.

Despite everything—the embarrassment, the confusion, and the mortifying realization that he had slammed an expensive hovercar door in his boss’s face over his own delusional overthinking—he still needed to prepare food for Grayson.

After all the ridiculous effort Grayson had gone through to show him that actual ingredients existed in the interstellar era and that food could taste like something other than that horrible nutrient solution—it would be a waste to quit now.

He pulled up his light-brain interface, fingers swiping through the newly downloaded shipping software. The holographic display cast a faint blue glow across his face as he scrolled through the horrible display of uncategorized, endless options.

Shopping for ingredients in the interstellar era was like playing a bizarre guessing game where everything looked slightly wrong.

Red pineapples. Black potatoes. Mushrooms that looked like they would kill you on sight if you so much as breathed near them, and not handled him the way the facility does.

He methodically selected items one by one, cross-referencing every purchase with his notes that he took when he was with Grayson and that database of Earth ingredients equivalent that Shelly provided.

After finalizing the order and sending it out, Neville collapsed onto the sofa and pulled up the latest news feeds.

Not because he cared, but because he wasn’t some hidden genius. He didn’t really want to diligently check the latest news either, but reading the news just happened to raise the proficiency of his Basic Secretarial Skill.

And he did not want to go through that hellhole of a training program again.

The system’s so-called "training module" had been enough to traumatize him for life. He had zero plans to purchase the Intermediate or Advanced Secretarial Skills. He didn’t want to risk getting lectured by another sadistic genius teacher from some era with a pointer stick ever again.

Shelly stayed conspicuously absent. She was probably sulking somewhere in her own mysterious data space, where she stayed whenever she was gone.

It was fine, after all, it was his fault.

The delivery arrived faster than expected. Neville unpacked the crate, lining the ingredients neatly on the counter. He examined each one and identified them based on his notes.

Reality and pictures here often differ, for example, that of Baragara. Neville shivered at the thought.

The Ananas Padma fruit was the first in the package. Carefully wrapped and presented like a Japanese fruit. It looked exactly like a red version of a pineapple. Which was both helpful to easily identify and deeply unsettling to look at.

For real, why red? Who thought that mutation was a good idea? Ugh. The juices are really...bloody, to say the least.

Next came the Level-4 Cosmic Beast Meat—not ground, thankfully. It resembled a strange hybrid of beautifully marbled pork and beef. Assuming he didn’t mess up the core temperature, since he was referencing Earth’s food preparation standards, it should turn out to be tender when cooked.

The Cyano mushrooms sat in their container menacingly. They looked like a normal assortment of white caps now, but Neville knew it was just their current appearance. He already knew that because of their natural toxins, it had to be thoroughly "bled" out at the processing facility, hence their current pale-white appearance.

When freshly plucked, they looked like a terrifying pile of deep, poisonous crimson clusters of mushrooms. Their initial deep crimson caps resembled something straight out of a warning label. Their processed versions were supposedly safe according to the packaging.

Though Neville still eyed them with suspicion.

After all, they were the only ones who got a separate container inside two more containers. When he opened those containers, there were a few reminders of what to watch out for. If he found those, he should report and discard them immediately. They also promised a couple of refunds if found.

It also contained facts and certificates showing it was handled properly. If found otherwise, please sue. They even include the meaning of the Cyano, just like how flowers have different meanings. It means death by curiosity.

Having been partially steamed before shipping, which meant that he needed to use them right away, or he would risk spoiling them entirely.

Damn, how many times do they have to repeat this and waste paper? Neville annoyingly thought.

Neville exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

Since I’ve already decided to commit to this whole stupid experiment, he thought, grabbing a knife with renewed focus, I might as well see it through.