Chapter Eighty-Three: On the Nature of Poison, Worm-Love, and the Sovereign Weight of a Chonk
There was no warning—no psychic tremor, no instinctual ping of dread. One moment Kimchi was face-down on the floor like a poisoned houseplant, the next she rocketed upright like a possessed marionette mid-exorcism.
Her posture was stiff. Her gaze? Not focused on anything in the mortal realm.
"Kimchi?" I asked carefully, voice laced with concern as I rose slightly. "My dear. Are you alright?"
I wasn't used to seeing her floored like that. Unresponsive, yes. Covered in blood, often. But not… dazed. Sophia, seated nearby and idly swirling a glass of something unethically iridescent, glanced over and murmured with scientific detachment, "She drank enough neurotoxic honey to exterminate five hundred baseline humans. Technically she should be very, very dead."
"Comforting," I deadpanned.
