"Come on," Dylan said softly. "You only have to go through it once. After that, it'll get easier."
Haru swallowed hard. Her lips, tense and damp, quivered slightly as a bead of sweat rolled down her blushing face, tracing a warm path along the delicate lines of her neck until it disappeared into the hollow of her collarbone.
"It's just… I'm afraid it'll bleed too much," she murmured, eyes half-closed, too afraid to look directly. "It's my first time."
Dylan leaned in slightly, speaking in a gentle, reassuring tone.
"If you hesitate too much, it's going to make things worse. Just… let it flow like I showed you. Don't overthink it."
"I don't know if I'm ready," she replied, barely louder than a whisper.
"No one is the first time."
A heavy, almost intimate silence followed. Haru lowered her head, and closed her eyes. Her long, wet lashes fluttered. She inhaled deeply, filling her chest with held air.
"What if I mess it up?"
"Then I'll help you fix it. But ideally, you should do it yourself."
Her fingers, pale and tense, clenched tightly around what she was holding. The sweat covering her palm made the sensation feel even more vivid. For a moment, it was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them—the heat of their breaths, the scent of sweat on their bodies, the shifting glances and whispered words between them.
And then, without another word, Haru looked down. In front of her, on an old plastic table, a fat white hen fluttered clumsily. Its wings flapped in nervous spasms, but its legs, tied tightly with a hemp cord, kept it bound to its fate.
"Do I really have to kill it…?" she asked with a sigh.
Dylan gave a quiet nod.
The heat in the backyard was nearly unbearable. Despite it being December, the weather seemed to have forgotten it was winter. The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked tiles, and the air smelled of dry earth, soap, and gunpowder. From the street, distant echoes of loud Christmas carols, laughter, and the occasional firecracker filtered in from the neighborhood celebrations.
But unmoved by the festive cheer others had embraced since morning, the two of them were alone at home. Roberto had left before sunrise to visit his girlfriend, leaving them the place to themselves.
Equally indifferent to the tradition of wearing one's best clothes on that day, Dylan wore frayed jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. Meanwhile, Haru was dressed a bit lighter than usual, wearing a green apron over a loose blouse and a cotton skirt, exposing her sweat-slicked skin as she sought relief from the suffocating heat. Besides, as a new addition, she wore a wooden rosary around her neck, with a hand-carved Christ figure she seemed intent on showing off at every opportunity.
He watched her patiently as she stood there, still trembling and biting her lips, knowing full well that what he was asking of her wasn't easy. Still, this wasn't just a test of courage or a survival lesson—it was, above all, a rite of passage.
Dylan hoped this would be the final push she needed to harden her resolve, to break free from the fragile shell that still tied her to her former life as a pampered girl.
"Go ahead," he said again, his voice neither stern nor forceful.
Still, she resisted. Her body reacted with disgust and anxiety. She even tried to come up with excuses to back out, but the words died in her throat before they could form. Left with no other option, her eyes filled with fake tears, hoping to dissuade him from forcing her into such a task.
Realizing she wouldn't be able to do it alone, Dylan moved behind her. He placed his hands over hers, helping her adjust her grip on the knife and steady her trembling fingers.
His touch was brief, but it was enough. Immediately, the blade dropped in a sharp motion. The hen thrashed in spasms, flinging blood and feathers in every direction. The table was drenched in red, which dripped down to the floor in a thin, dark stream.
After a few seconds of false life, the animal finally stopped moving.
At the sight, Haru... didn't scream or step back. In fact, her teary eyes quickly returned to normal, save for the slight redness in the corners. The first thing she did was raise the knife and examine it from side to side.
"That's a strange feeling," she blurted out without thinking.
Then she twirled the knife between her fingers.
"I thought I'd feel worse."
"Well… yeah. It was just a chicken, after all. It's not a big deal once you get used to it."
'Though... that's only once you get used to it.'
Outwardly, he downplayed it—but inside, he was stunned by how quickly she'd shifted. That sudden calm, so unlike the hesitant Haru from just moments ago, left him a little unsettled.
With the animal now dead, Dylan picked up the body and headed for the kitchen, Haru following closely behind.
Once inside that narrow space, where the heat was even more oppressive between the closed walls, he set the hen on the table and lit the burner. The gas hissed, and the sound of the flame filled the room like a long-held breath.
Soon, Haru stood in front of the cutting board, waiting for instructions.
"You need to pluck it first," Dylan said, pulling out his phone. "Use boiling water. Makes the feathers come off easier."
As he spoke, he scrolled through the screen, mentally reviewing the steps to make sure he didn't mess up. He wasn't much of a cook, and never pretended to be. So, without external help, his guidance would've been a disaster.
Haru obeyed without hesitation, though her clumsy movements betrayed her inexperience. She grabbed a large pot, filled it with tap water, and set it on the burner. While it heated, she searched the cupboard for salt—something Dylan said would help speed up the process.
Minutes passed, and steam slowly filled the kitchen, mixing with the suffocating heat in a sticky haze. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm and waited.
When the water finally reached a rolling boil, Dylan gave her the next step.
"Hold it by the legs and dunk it all the way in. About thirty seconds. No more. Watch you don't burn yourself."
Haru did as told, cautiously. As the bird went under, a soft bubbling hiss echoed from the pot. The smell changed instantly: stronger, sharper. She wrinkled her nose and breathed through her mouth, trying to ignore it.
"Is it ready?"
"Yeah. Start plucking it now, before it cools down."
She did her best, but pulling the wet feathers was more unpleasant than she had imagined. They clung to her fingers; the thick ones were stubborn, and the small ones wouldn't even come off properly. Still, she didn't give up. She focused, muttering under her breath from time to time.
After a while, with the body mostly clean, Dylan told her to rinse it under the tap and get another pot ready—this time to cook it for real.
Haru didn't object. She stepped up to the sink, turned on the water, and held the plucked bird under a firm stream, gently turning it to wash off the remaining blood and stray feathers. Then she grabbed another pot from the lower shelf, filled it, and set it on the burner again.
The second boil took longer than expected. During the wait, Haru wiped the knife with a damp cloth, cleaned the leftover mess on the table, and pulled out a wooden cutting board that barely fit on the edge of the counter. The kitchen, already stifling, now felt like a trap of steam and metal.
When bubbles finally began to break the water's surface, Dylan peeked in, nodded, and said:
"Alright. You can start cutting."
With his confirmation, she began slicing slowly at the spots he pointed to: the neck, under the wing, between the leg joints. Unfortunately, the gelatinous texture, lingering blood, and metallic smell made it hard for her to concentrate.
"You have no idea how much I hate this," she muttered.
Even so, she didn't complain much at first. But a few minutes later, with her hands buried in the bird's guts and a look of deep annoyance on her face, she glanced sideways at Dylan.
"What? Aren't you going to help?"
She was already irritated by the grossness of it all, and seeing him so calm and unbothered, watching while she handled the filth, only made it worse.
"I am helping," he said coolly, raising his phone to eye level. "I'm making sure you don't ruin dinner."
She let out a soft snort, not wanting to start a fight. Then she got back to it. The only sounds that filled the kitchen were the knife tapping against the board, the hiss of the flame, and the whistle of steam escaping from a poorly sealed pot.
"And that necklace? Since when do you wear it?"
Dylan had noticed Haru's new accessory for a while but hadn't bothered to ask—mainly out of disinterest. Still, he threw the question out now, hoping it would lighten her mood.
Haru paused for a moment, her hand still holding the wooden spoon she used to stir the chicken broth.
"This?" she asked, touching the rosary hanging from her neck. "Doña Antonia gave it to me when I went to see her today. So I have to bring her some food tonight."
"I see… Then we better make sure this meal turns out okay. Wouldn't want to give her something that could make her sick. She's getting on in years, after all."
With those words, the conversation melted once again into the kitchen's thick steam. Seeing the slight smile that tugged at her lips, Dylan figured he'd accomplished his goal, and kept ''cooking'' without further distractions.
As the minutes passed, the atmosphere grew calmer. Yet a subtle tension began to linger in the air. It showed in the way Haru glanced sideways now and then, or how she licked her lips as if wanting to say something, but struggling to get the words out.
At last, mustering her courage, Haru spoke in a low voice. Words that could've easily gotten lost in the scent of freshly chopped onions and garlic.
"Hey… is this really the last time I can come over?"
Dylan didn't answer right away. He just looked at her as a droplet of oil popped and landed near his hand.