𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

Shamelessness Is A Weapon

After being unceremoniously dismissed by a certain male lead—cough Layza cough—I find myself wandering his property. Or rather, the endless expanse surrounding it. His estate is massive, eerily void of life. No humans, no animals, not even a single spirit flits about. It’s just plants. Endless, vibrant plants and trees that seem too alive, their twisting branches clawing at the motionless pink sky.

The sky hasn’t changed since I arrived. No golden hues of dusk, no deepening blues of night—just the same, unrelenting pink glow. Is it an illusion, or does time truly stand still here? Either way, the place is unnerving.

My stomach growls, a loud, pitiful noise that reminds me of my current predicament. Walker briefly crosses my mind. He’d have food. But then I imagine his face if I showed up again after ditching him. Yeah, no thanks. Even if he forgave me—which I doubt—I can’t go back without completing the mission.

If I were in my original body, this whole thing would be over by now. I’d kidnap Layza, tie him up (or whatever one does to a spirit), and force him to do my bidding. But, of course, life isn’t that simple. For starters, I have no idea what kills a spirit. A knife? A spell? Some obscure spirit voodoo? Thanks, system, for conveniently skipping that part.

Annoyance prickles through me, but my hunger quickly drowns it out.

Food first. Problems later.

With that thought in mind, I scamper across the field of glowing flowers and climb through the open window of Layza’s strange home. The scent of something delicious—roast duck, maybe—hits me instantly. My stomach twists in anticipation.

The living room is just as chaotic as I left it. Potted plants crowd every surface, their leaves sprawling like they own the place. Books with colorful illustrations and incomprehensible text are stacked haphazardly, and the air is thick with the scent of herbs and something faintly sweet. But none of it matters now. I’m on a mission, and that mission is food.

I weave through the jungle of plants, following the tantalizing aroma down a narrow, yellow-lit hallway. It leads me into what I assume is the kitchen—or some version of it. Like the rest of the house, it’s a beautiful mess.

The kitchen is alive, not in the creepy haunted way but in a chaotic, untamed way. Vines spill over shelves, creeping along walls and tangling with cooking utensils that are casually strewn about. There’s no organization here—no racks, no drawers—just plants and tools vying for space in the same chaotic dance.

I sniff the air, the scent of roasted meat pulling me closer to the cauldron bubbling in the corner. Wait. Roast duck? But I haven’t seen a single duck—or any bird—in this entire realm. Where did it come from? The thought briefly distracts me, but hunger overrides my curiosity.

Normally, I’d be tempted to explore, to uncover the secrets of this bizarre world Layza calls home. But today, my priorities are clear. Food now. Layza later. Mystery solving? That’s a problem for future me.

Layza stands by the fire, stirring something in a pot with practiced ease. The flames dance beneath the cauldron, casting flickering shadows across his face. He’s donned a black apron over his flowing robes, the juxtaposition almost comical. Yet, with his chiseled features—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and those striking eyes—it somehow works. He doesn’t look ridiculous. No, he looks like he could be modeling annoying yet ethereal culinary spirits in some high-end magazine. Why does someone so angelic-looking have to be this infuriating?

I wonder briefly if people back in my world thought the same about me. No, of course not. I’m universally adored. Probably. Mostly.

Shaking off the thought, I leap onto the countertop. The motion is effortless now, my small body adjusting quickly to its feline capabilities. I plant myself near the fire, the warmth seeping through my fur, and my gaze locks on the spread of food laid out nearby. My mouth waters as I catch the scent of roasted vegetables and some kind of glazed meat.

Layza notices my arrival, his golden eyes flicking toward me in mild irritation. His expression silently asks, Why are you still here? I pointedly ignore him, pretending not to notice his scrutiny.

Instead, I saunter over to the side dishes, my steps light and purposeful, and help myself. Gracefully, of course. Or at least, as gracefully as one can manage while eating with a cat’s body. The flavors explode on my tongue, and I barely hold back a purr of satisfaction.

From above me, Layza lets out a low sound of disapproval, a sharp click of his tongue against his teeth. I pause mid-bite and glance up at him with a deliberate look that screams, Really? A great spirit like you is going to be stingy about some food?

His brows furrow, his dissatisfaction evident, but he doesn’t move to stop me. Instead, he sighs, a resigned sound that feels like permission.

Victory tastes even better than the food.

As I savor the meal crafted by none other than the great and ridiculously annoying spirit himself, I can't help but marvel at how things have turned out. Not only did Layza lay out a plate for me, but he also conjured up a high chair—perfectly sized for a cat—from who knows where. Probably one of his mystical voodoo tricks. I’m not questioning it, though. Why look a gift spirit in the mouth when he’s feeding me gourmet roast duck?

I sink my teeth into the crispy, golden skin, the juices practically melting in my mouth. Each bite is an explosion of smoky, savory flavor. If shamelessness is a weapon, then consider me a master swordsman. It’s clear now: sometimes, all it takes is audacity to turn the tide in your favor.

Layza, meanwhile, stands by his bubbling cauldron, stirring something with an air of casual indifference. His features are calm, almost serene, as if he didn’t just host the world’s most irritating scavenger hunt to let me find him. Watching him now, you’d think he’s a benevolent host rather than a smug tormentor.

And yet, as absurd as this man—or spirit—may be, I think I’ve figured out his Achilles’ heel. The secret isn’t flattery, charm, or even logic. It’s effort—or at least the illusion of it. Layza thrives on the idea that others must "prove their worth" before he lifts a finger. He doesn’t care about the actual struggle, just the appearance of it.

I glance at him again, his expression unreadable as he stirs. My whiskers twitch as a plan begins to take shape in my mind. I’m not going to beg, and I’m certainly not going to let him dismiss me like some unworthy pest. Instead, I’ll play his game—and I’ll make him think I’m playing it to win.

Another bite of duck, and I feel a sly grin forming inside me. Layza might be the master of tests, but this time, I’m the one writing the rules. Enjoy your calm for now, oh great spirit, I think, licking my chops. You’re about to see just how worthy I can pretend to be.

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A/N: fluff incoming, maybe smut too. MAYBE.