INT. UNIVERSITY LAB ROOM 144

With an exasperated sigh, Ice stepped forward, set the whisk into the bowl, and began mixing the batter again—precisely, firmly, and silently judging me with every turn.

"Got it. I’ll just do that," I said quickly, trying to reclaim the bowl. But the moment I reached out, his cold glare froze me in place.

"No," he said flatly. “You’ve already messed it up. You need to redo it.”

Redo it? Again?!

I wanted to protest, maybe throw myself on the counter dramatically and yell, "Why must I suffer like this?" But Ice was too scary. I could already hear the imaginary version of him snapping, “It’s your fault!”—just like he had multiple times already.

He turned and walked back to his station, clearly fuming. The heat of his irritation was practically radiating across the room. I could feel my soul starting to boil inside my skin.

Then, just as I was preparing to quietly try again, his voice cut through the room—sharp and louder than before.

"You overmixed it! Again! Do I really have to explain this for the third time?"

Oh no. I wanted to vanish. Right here, right now. Just sink into the floor like batter into a cracked pan.

“I’m sorry! I’ll do it again!” I yelped, my hands trembling. Mommy, help!

I silently prayed for divine intervention—or maybe a cake fairy to possess my body. Anything but this. It was getting clearer by the second: Ice was dangerously close to snapping, and the next thing that might break would be me.

"I filed a complaint about you being in this year’s level," Ice said, his voice now low, but every word felt like a punch to the ego. "They said you had subjects accredited, but how can you be this clueless?"

Ouch. That one hit harder than overcooked sponge cake.

I bit my lip, fighting the tears. That was years ago. Of course I forgot things! But I could relearn… if he could just tone down the scary a bit.

I tried to stay calm, to keep going, but I could feel his eyes boring into every clumsy movement I made.

Was this the sixth time I messed up? Or the seventh? I’d lost count.

He wasn’t just frustrated—he was probably regretting ever letting me choose the theme.

Which, technically… was fair.

And now that I thought about it, the signs had been there. Like... the supermarket incident.

Flashback: Supermarket Scene

We had decided to gather ingredients separately to save time. It was my genius idea. (Spoiler: terrible idea.)

I remember walking up to the cashier line, proud of my basket. Everything looked perfect. Organized. Efficient. Just like a real adult. Then I saw Ice pause, eyebrows twitching. That couldn’t be good.

He glanced into my cart, picked up the butter, and said, completely deadpan, "This is salted. We need unsalted."

My smile faltered. I stared at the butter, hoping it would magically change labels.

"I’ll change it!" I blurted, then sprinted off toward the dairy aisle like it was a relay race and my life depended on it. Maybe it did.

What’s the big deal? I thought. Butter is butter, right?

Wrong.

When I came back, breathless and triumphant, I realized he hadn’t moved from the spot. He didn’t go ahead to line up. He just stood there, like a dad waiting for his chaotic toddler to finish wrecking the cereal aisle.

"I got the butter!" I announced, hoping my brightest smile could erase the tension.

But Ice just stared, unimpressed.

"Did you actually read all the ingredients?"

Cue mental breakdown.

And that’s when the real horror began.

“Cake flour was listed. This is bread flour. Do you know how to convert that?”

“We needed brown sugar. You got powdered sugar—for icing!”

“We needed vanilla beans. You bought vanilla syrup—for coffee!”

“And these eggs—what size are they supposed to be? These are too small!”

Each word hit like a sniper shot to my confidence. His voice wasn’t loud, but somehow, that made it worse. It was the quiet disappointment of someone watching a puppy try to do math.

I stared at the floor, cheeks burning.

Nobody told me baking required a PhD in grocery shopping.

To make matters worse, he’d started talking about conversions and ratios and math. I didn’t sign up for this! This was supposed to be a fun, fluffy cake!

And now I was standing here, one mistake away from crying into the batter.

Why does vanilla syrup even exist if it’s not for baking?!

I forced a weak laugh, trying to appear upbeat. "I’ll get better. I promise."

But inside? I was screaming.