They returned like victorious warriors.

Except the victory was extremely questionable.

Arin came first, arms full of spice containers he had collected with the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb.

Rithvik followed, dragging a heavy pot with tomatoes like he had just survived a battlefield, lentils sloshing ominously inside.

Kabir came last, holding the moong lentils packet like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

They placed everything on the marble slab.

Arnav didn’t praise.
He didn’t smile.
He only looked.

And that look alone could have straightened crooked morals.

“Rithvik,” Arnav said calmly, already reaching for a pot, “wash the lentils and soak them in water.”

Rithvik nodded with dramatic sincerity, picked up the lentils approximately two kilograms of chaos and dumped them straight into a pot.

Not a strainer.
A pot.

He turned on the tap.

Lentils rebelled.

Some escaped bravely into the sink.
Some clung to the pot for dear life.
Some simply disappeared, never to be seen again.

Rithvik stared at the massacre, unfazed, then filled the entire pot to the brim with water like he was drowning his regrets.

At the same time -

“Arin,” Arnav said, turning smoothly, “wash the tomatoes.”

“And Kabir,” his eyes flicked next, “fill this pot with water.”

All three moved at once, like a badly coordinated military drill.

Arin washed the tomatoes with such enthusiasm that water dripped everywhere on the counter, on the sink, on the marble floor, creating a subtle but deadly slip zone.

Kabir filled the pot.

Correction:
Kabir filled the entire universe with water, because apparently five tomatoes required enough water to boil sins.

Arnav took the pot from Kabir’s hands before it could overflow into an indoor swimming pool, took the tomatoes from Arin, and moved.

His steps were smooth.
Controlled.
Perfect.

He placed the pot on the induction cooktop; because of course this was a luxury kitchen and turned on the heat with effortless precision.

Water. Tomatoes. Lid.

Done.

(A/N: OH MY MY ARNAV.
THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY BACHI-KUCHI IZZAT.
AT THIS POINT, I AM HOLDING IT WITH BOTH HANDS.)

He turned back.

“Kabir, Arin,” he said, already multitasking, “go cut fruits for Angel.”

Then, without missing a beat, “Rithvik, cut green chillies and ginger for the chilla. I’ll blend the lentils.”

(A/N: YOU SOAKED THEM JUST NOW??? ME CRYING SOFTLY IN A CORNER.)

They nodded.

And separated.

Now.

In fruits Corner....

Kabir and Arin reached the section like men entering forbidden territory.

Strawberries.
Blueberries.
Apples.

Kabir stared at them as if they were evidence in a murder case.

“Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, trying to sound authoritative, “you cut strawberries. I’ll cut apple. Blueberries don’t need cutting.”

Arin nodded immediately.
Zero questions.
Blind trust.
Dangerous.

Kabir washed the apples and strawberries using fruit-and-vegetable cleaner, standing there for the full two minutes like a man following instructions for the first time in his life.

Timer beeped.

Kabir picked up an apple.

And then -

He picked up a knife.

Not held.
Gripped.

Like he was about to fight for his life.

His right hand wrapped around the handle, knuckles white, wrist stiff, posture tense; this was not a cooking stance.
This was an execution stance.

He placed the apple on the cutting board.

Looked at it.

The apple looked back.
Mocking.
Shiny.
Confident.

Kabir raised the knife.

THUD.

The knife came down with the force of unresolved trauma.

The apple split -

One half landed on the board.

The other half -

flew.

It soared.

A beautiful arc.

Time slowed.

Kabir’s eyes followed it as it crossed the kitchen like a dramatic betrayal -

THUMP.

It landed on the other counter.

Silence.

Kabir blinked.

Then he shook his head sharply.
“Ofho, this fucker apple.”

(A/N; what the fudge,you are abusing an apple, my BP omg pls someone save me)

He picked up the remaining half with visible irritation, gripping it like it had personally offended him.

Again, he raised the knife.

THUD.

This time, no flying objects.

Progress.

The cut was.....

Zigzag.

Emotionally unstable.

But successful.

Kabir nodded to himself, satisfied.

Then he started removing the middle part.

Or tried to.

What followed was less “removing the core” and more “dismantling the apple’s entire identity.”

He dug the knife in.

Too deep.

Half the apple went straight into the waste bowl.

Kabir paused.

Stared at the remaining piece in his hand.

“acceptable,” he muttered, convincing absolutely no one.

He began cutting the apple into cubes.

Each cut was aggressive.
Uneven.
Personal.

One cube fell onto the counter.
Another bounced onto the floor.
One actually landed inside the bowl, shocking everyone involved.

By the time he was done, the apple existed in three states:

On the counter

On the floor

In the bowl

The cubes themselves looked like survivors of a natural disaster.

Kabir stepped back, surveyed his work, chest rising slightly.

“Done,” he said quietly, like he had just completed a mission.

And he was already reaching for another apple.

This time, he adjusted his stance.

Left hand holding the apple.
Right hand gripping the knife.

He raised it.

Paused.

Adjusted angle.

“Okay,” he murmured to himself, “control.”

THUD.

The apple split.

Cleaner this time.

Kabir’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

He nodded once.

Then proceeded to cut.

The knife slipped.

The apple rolled.

Kabir slammed his palm down to stop it.

“Stay,” he snapped.

He resumed.

More cuts.

More chaos.

One cube flew off the board.
Another stuck to the knife.
A third slid dramatically off the counter edge.

Kabir sighed.

Deep.

Long.

The kind of sigh that carried years of violence, bloodshed, and now - fruit trauma.

“Why,” he muttered, voice low, “is this harder than breaking bones?”

(A/N: SIR.PLEASE.NOT THE      COMPARISON.)

He finally finished.

Eight cubes.

Roughly.

Technically.

He looked at the mess.

Half on the counter.
Half on the floor.
Somehow, apple juice everywhere.

Kabir leaned both hands on the counter, head dropping for a second.

Then he straightened.

Picked up the bowl.

Scooped whatever cubes were closest.

Left the rest.

Turned.

And walked away like nothing happened.

On the other side, while Arnav moved with quiet control already lifting the blender jar, already pretending that soaking lentils for exactly five minutes counted as planning

Rithvik stood frozen in front of the cutting board.

Green chillies.
Ginger.

Two innocent ingredients.

Two victims who didn’t know what was coming.

Rithvik nodded when Arnav gave the instruction.

A single nod.
Sharp.
Precise.

Like a doctor acknowledging a case file.

He picked up the chillies.

Not casually.
Not like a normal human being.

He examined them.

From above.
From below.
Side angle.
Opposite angle.

His eyes narrowed, as if diagnosing an internal condition.

“These are  thin,” he muttered to himself, tone serious, almost clinical.

(A/N: They are chillies not a patient😭)

Then he reached for the knife.

Oh no.

He didn’t pick it up.

He held it like a scalpel.

Two fingers firm.
Grip controlled.
Wrist straight.

The man looked like he was about to perform open-heart surgery on a vegetable.

He placed the chillies on the cutting board.

Aligned them carefully.

Too carefully.

Every chilli was adjusted, straightened, positioned parallel to the board’s edge, like soldiers standing in formation.

Rithvik inhaled.

Slow.
Deep.

And then -

The first cut.

Clean.
Horizontal.
Exact.

The knife slid through the chilli with terrifying smoothness.

Rithvik didn’t blink.

His face was blank.
Focused.
Emotionless.

Slice.
Slice.
Slice.

Each cut was identical, thin lines forming perfectly even strips.

No chilli seeds escaped.
No piece rolled away.

This wasn’t cooking.

This was precision violence.

(A/N: WHY IS HE SO GOOD AT THIS.
I AM UNCOMFORTABLE.)

(A/N; ahhh..... finally My Rithvik,my gem)

He finished the chillies and paused, studying them like a surgeon inspecting stitches.

Satisfied, he nodded once.

“Acceptable,” he murmured.

Then came the ginger.

He picked up a piece - about two inches long.

He stared at it.

Then he reached for the peeler.

What followed was excessive.

He peeled.
And peeled.
And peeled.

Skin came off.
Then more skin.
Then somehow, flesh too.

The ginger shrank.

And shrank.

Until what remained was barely half an inch.

Rithvik stared at the tiny piece in his hand.

Paused.

Then nodded again, fully convinced.

“Waste removed,” he said quietly.

(A/N: Bhai you removed the GINGER.)

He placed the remaining piece on the board.

Straightened it.

Adjusted it twice.

Picked up the knife again - same grip, same posture.

Slice.

Thin.
Horizontal.
Perfect.

He cut the ginger into lines so fine they almost looked translucent.

Each piece identical.
Each cut measured.

When he was done, he gathered the chillies and ginger neatly into a small pile.

Not scattered.
Not messy.

Neat.

Organized.

As if the cutting board itself had been disinfected afterward.

Rithvik stepped back.

Looked at his work.

Then glanced toward kabir, who was busy doing disaster that were still spiritually raw.

He didn’t call out.

He didn’t announce.

He simply placed the chopped ingredients in a bowl and slid it forward on the counter with controlled grace.

Task complete.

Meanwhile -

Arin, standing a little away, watched the entire thing in silence.

Arin swallowed.

“…Why does it look like he enjoyed that?” arin muttered.

Rithvik heard it.

He turned his head just slightly.

One eyebrow lifted.

He shut up instantly.

(A/N: NOTE TO SELF.Never ever asked me to show them on a Wattpad mafia party peaze 😭😭)

Rithvik wiped the knife carefully.
Placed it back exactly where it belonged.

Then he washed his hands.

Thoroughly.
Methodically.
Like someone scrubbing away invisible guilt.

He dried them.

And finally looked up.

“Green chillies and ginger are ready,” he said calmly.

No pride.
No drama.

Just facts.

Arnav glanced at the bowl.

Then at Rithvik.

Then back at the bowl.

“Good,” he said.

Simple.

Rithvik nodded once more.

And stepped aside.

Behind him, the cutting board lay silent; clean, precise, untouched by chaos.

In a kitchen full of disasters, he had left behind something unsettling:

Perfection.

(A/N: ONE IS FIGHTING APPLES.
AND ONE IS SECRETLY A KITCHEN SERIAL KILLER.
LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH.)

And with that, the kitchen returned to its ongoing war

On the other side of the kitchen far away from surgical chillies and flying apples

Arin stood frozen in front of a bowl of strawberries.

Something about them snapped him.

Not emotionally.

Not dramatically.

Mentally.

A red switch flipped inside his brain, the kind that only flips when a man realizes he is wildly underqualified for the task in front of him.

He stared at the strawberries.

They stared back.

Perfect.
Bright.
Judging.

Arin narrowed his eyes.

“No,” he muttered under his breath. “Not today.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone like a man reaching for a weapon in war.

Unlocked it.
Typed.

“HOW TO CUT STRAWBERRIES.”

(A/n;😶
I am going to do chan tapak dam dam)

Capital letters.
Urgent energy.

A video popped up almost instantly.

Thumbnail: smiling hands, soft music, strawberries lined up like they were about to attend a wedding.

Caption:
How to cut strawberries perfectly 🍓✨

Arin clicked.

Then without hesitation changed the speed to 0.5x.

Because why rush perfection?

He leaned closer, eyes glued to the screen.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Step one…. hold gently.”

He picked up a strawberry.

Too gently.

It slipped.

He caught it mid-air, heart racing.

“Control,” he warned himself. “Grip but don’t dominate.”

(A/N: HE IS TALKING TO A STRAWBERRY? LIKE REALLY???)

The video continued.

Cut the top. Nice and smooth.

Arin lifted the knife.

Paused.

Adjusted grip.

Paused again.

Checked the angle.

Checked the phone.

Checked the strawberry.

Then -finally -cut.

The top came off.

Not clean.
Not ugly.

Just acceptable.

Arin exhaled like he’d disarmed a bomb.

“Okay,” he nodded. “We’re good.”

He followed the video step by step.

Slice by slice.
Piece by piece.

No mess.
No flying fruit.
No dramatic betrayal.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was controlled.

The strawberry pieces landed neatly in the bowl.

One by one.

Arin kept glancing at the phone, rewinding when necessary, sometimes muttering:

“Why are you moving so fast, slow down-oh wait, it’s already slow.”

(A/N: I make him engineering student na,sorry it's not engineer, its 5th failed student okay)

When he finished, he stared at the bowl.

Red.
Neat.
Presentable.

A small, proud smile appeared on his face.

“I did it,” he whispered. “Without bloodshed.”

He picked up the bowl and turned toward Arnav, ready to present it like an offering.

Meanwhile—

At the center of the kitchen, Arnav was fighting lentils.

The soaked lentils if five minutes of emotional dampness could be called soaking sat in a pot.

Arnav rinsed them with practiced efficiency.

Water out.
Lentils in.

Except -

Only half of them obeyed.

The other half spilled dramatically onto the pot’s rim, clinging there like they were reconsidering life choices.

Arnav didn’t react.

He simply sighed.

Low.
Tired.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Stay.”

He lifted the grinder jar and started transferring the lentils.

Some went in.

Some….didn’t.

Half of the lentils slid straight into the jar.

The rest missed the opening entirely and landed back in the pot.

Arnav stared at them.

Long.

Silent.

Threatening.

Then he closed the grinder lid and locked it into place.

His movements were smooth.
Confident.

Like someone who had no idea what destiny was about to slap him with.

He reached for the switch.

And that’s when Arin entered the danger zone.

He walked carefully, holding the bowl of strawberries like it was fragile evidence.

“Bhai,” he said, stepping closer, “I cut them. Properly. I watched a video.”

Arnav glanced sideways.

Before he could reply -

Arin’s foot slipped.

Not dramatically.

Not instantly.

Just enough.

The water.

The stupid, innocent drops of water Arin himself had splashed earlier while washing tomatoes.

The marble betrayed him.

Time slowed.

Arin’s balance went off.

His body tilted.

His instincts screamed.

He reached out -

And grabbed Arnav’s forearm.

Hard.

Reflexively.

For support.

For survival.

Arnav’s grip on the grinder loosened.

Just a little.

But little is all chaos needs.

The grinder - already switched on roared to life.

Vrrrrrrrr

Arnav looked down.

“Arin”

Too late.

WHOOSH.

Arin slipped completely.

Arnav bent instinctively to catch him.

And in that split second -

The grinder lid came loose.

Lifted.

Flew.

Like a possessed frisbee.

And then

BOOM.

The lentils exploded.

Not gently.

Not artistically.

Violently.

Thick, half-blended lentil paste launched itself into the air like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment.

It hit the walls.

SPLAT.

The cabinets.

SPLASH.

The slab.

THWACK.

The utensils.

DRIP.

The floor.

PLOP.

Everywhere.

Everywhere.

White-beige lentil paste decorated the kitchen like abstract horror art.

The grinder kept running.

Still grinding.

Still screaming.

Vrrrrrrrr

Silence fell.

Complete.

Absolute.

Arnav froze mid-bend, one hand gripping Arin, the other hovering uselessly in the air.

Arin lay half on the floor, half upright, still holding the bowl of strawberries like a soldier refusing to drop his weapon.

Rithvik turned slowly.

His eyes widened.

Kabir blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then whispered-

“What the hell.”

The grinder continued.

Vrrrrrrrr—

Lentil paste dripped down the walls.

Slow.

Thick.

Disgusting.

A drop slid from the cabinet edge and landed on the counter.

Plop.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

The kitchen once white and blue and luxurious now looked like a crime scene.

Arnav straightened slowly.

His face unreadable.

His sleeve splattered.

His jaw clenched.

He looked at the grinder.

Still running.

Still alive.

Still mocking them.

Then -

The air shifted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The temperature dropped.

Something changed.

The lights didn’t flicker.

But the atmosphere darkened.

Heavy.

Oppressive.

As if the kitchen itself realized—

This had gone too far.

A presence loomed.

Unspoken.

Unseen.

The grinder’s sound suddenly felt louder.

Angrier.

Vrrrrrrrr—

All four men felt it at the same time.

That instinctive, gut-level warning.

The kind that says -

Someone is coming.

And they will not be pleased.

No footsteps yet.

No voice.

Just the weight.

The silence before the storm.

The grinder kept grinding.

Suspended.

Messy.

Ruined.

Waiting for consequences.

---------------👉🏻👈🏻-----------------

Hey my Anuvians 🤍

Today this is not a chapter.
I know I promised a big one, a chaotic, dramatic, full-of-mess chapter.

I know. And trust me i wanted to write it too. I sat with the idea, the scenes, the emotions but my hands just didn’t move the way my heart wanted them to.

I’m feeling a little low these days. Not because of any love drama - no filmy heartbreaks here but because sometimes emotions pile up quietly and suddenly you feel tired without knowing why.

My mind feels full, yet blank at the same time. Ideas are there I just don’t have the strength to hold them properly today.

Yesterday was my practical exam. I left home at 6:15 in the morning and came back at 7:56 in the evening - yes, that long. I was exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t easily fix. And tomorrow, I have a practical again.

Somewhere between studies, deadlines, expectations, and my own thoughts, I just slowed down.

I hate disappointing you. I really do.

Because I know you wait, you imagine scenes, you feel Avanya, you stay with the story.

And when I don’t post a chapter, it feels like I broke a silent promise. But today, I chose honesty over forcing words that wouldn’t carry the right emotions.

I also want to ask you something important.

Some people suggested that I should stop replying to you in my Anuvae style the random, chaotic, stupid-funny, overdramatic version of me. They say readers prefer a more “serious” or “professional” approach.

So tell me honestly-

Do you like this Anuvae, the messy one who talks too much and jokes even when tired?

Or should I switch to a calmer, filtered version?

And one more thing....
Should I stop writing these Anuvae end notes too?

Your opinions matter to me more than you think. This story may be fictional, but this bond isn’t.

Thank you for staying.

Thank you for caring.

Your messages genuinely help me smile on days like this.

Take care of yourself, okay?
And if you’re going through something quietly or loudly i am here. We’ll figure it out together.

Love you.
Miss you.
Your stupid, emotional, still-trying author,
Anuvae 🖤

Hit subscribe, enjoy the ride — AUTHOR-ANUVAE is on your side.
Follow @anuvae._.here, stay near — more chaos, stories & madness coming here