"Isabella, you have to gut the pig yourself," Bubu said, making Isabella freeze in place. She slowly turned her gaze to the dead pig now lying on the stone slab, its cold, lifeless eyes staring at her.
She swallowed hard, then whispered to herself, "You say what now?" Her voice trembled, disbelief taking over.
Was this a setup? She couldn’t even begin to process this.
"Bubu..." Isabella’s voice failed her. She couldn’t even find words.
Now, it’s not like she hadn’t gutted a fish or a deer before—especially that deer on that strange mountain—but here was the difference. When she had gutted that deer, she did it seamlessly, like a pro. No disgust, no hesitation. It was like something in the mountain air had made her immune to the horrors of... well, cutting open an animal.
But this? This was different.
The memory of the fish haunted her. She’d told no one, but that process? It was not some heroic feat. It was the worst experience of her life. The stench. The squish. The... the guts. Oh, god, the guts. It had been a nightmare. It had even turned into a recurring dream. She could still feel the slimy, slithering sensation of those fish innards.
And now? Now she had to gut a pig.
Ahhhhhh—Bubu was trying to traumatize her on purpose! She couldn’t do this. She was going to throw up. Invisible tears were already welling up, threatening to spill.
"You were right, Bubu. I don’t have a strong heart," Isabella whispered, her voice small, as if begging for mercy. A single tear finally slipped down her cheek.
"Yeah, I know I was right. That’s why I’m proceeding to give you this task." Bubu’s tone was as flat as ever, making it clear the system did not care one bit about her emotional wellbeing.
"Plus, you should be grateful I didn’t make you hunt that pig," Bubu added in a matter-of-fact tone.
When Isabella heard that, she gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she was about to faint.
"Oh, you... I hate you," she sniffled, shaking her head in disbelief.
"And I love you more than you can ever imagine," Bubu replied sweetly, as if the system was an overbearing, yet oddly affectionate, mother. "That’s why I keep building you up."
With that, Bubu’s voice faded, and the screen dimmed.
Isabella wiped her eyes dramatically, sniffling as she tried to regain some dignity. But just then, Cyrus approached, carrying some sharpened bone knives. When he saw the tears on Isabella’s face, his calm demeanor shattered. He immediately dropped the knives, and his hands shot out to pull her closer, but then he froze, stopping himself just before his touch could reach her.
"Isabella, what’s wrong?" His brows furrowed in concern, and his voice was soft, the edges of his worry unmistakable.
Isabella sniffled again, trying to wipe away her tear-streaked face but failing miserably. She quickly straightened up, forcing a smile, though it looked more like a grimace.
"Oh, it’s nothing," she said, attempting to sound casual, but it came out way too high-pitched. "Just a... minor emotional breakdown over nothing, really." She waved her hand dismissively, as if that would somehow erase the tragic mess that was her life in this moment.
Cyrus frowned, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he just stood there, hovering awkwardly, clearly unsure how to proceed. His eyes flicked to the pig, and Isabella could practically see him trying to figure out why she was so upset.
"Seriously, I’m fine. I just... I’ve had a really long day," she added quickly, trying to steer the conversation in a safer direction. "You know, it’s the whole ’gutting an animal’ thing, just a little bit too real for me. I’m more of a ’take-out’ kind of girl, you know?" She chuckled weakly, gesturing at the pig on the slab.
Although Cyrus had no idea what she meant, he immediately said, "I will help you! There’s no need—"
He didn’t even finish his sentence before Isabella shot her hand out, her index finger wagging back and forth.
"Mmm-mmh," she hummed, her eyes closing in dramatic fashion as she slowly shook her head, a masterclass in exaggerated refusal. "No, no, no," she muttered, as though this was the most tragic of all fates.
Isabella’s heart was still pounding in her chest, and the urge to just walk away was strong, but she knew that wasn’t an option. She needed to face this ridiculous task. So, with all the enthusiasm of a person who had just been sentenced to lifetime chores, she exhaled dramatically.
"But, uh, I’ll manage. Just need a moment to, you know, mentally prepare myself for... the horror." She plastered on a grin that would’ve looked more convincing if it weren’t for the tiny, shaking laugh that escaped her lips.
Cyrus, ever the gentle soul, nodded as if he understood perfectly. "Take your time," he said quietly, though he still had that concerned expression on his face.
He didn’t want to leave her alone, but at the same time, he didn’t want to push her into something she wasn’t ready for.
Isabella sighed deeply, mentally preparing for what was coming. She didn’t even have the heart to look at the pig anymore—she was too afraid it might judge her for her hesitation.
"Right," she mumbled to herself, "let’s make some... pig guts soup. Yay."
She paused for a second and then looked back up at Cyrus, trying to shake off the mounting dread. "You know, if this was a movie, now would be the part where the music swells and I rise up heroically with a knife in hand... but, uh, in reality, it’s more like a tragic horror film. So... yeah."
There. She said it. And with that, she felt a little better. Maybe not better, but at least she was somewhat on track.
And with that, she took a small step toward the pig, wincing dramatically as she approached the enemy.