“That one will fail,” Dis says with the absolute certainty of prophecy.
“Which one?”
“The man in the striped apron. His oven temperature is incorrect. He will dishonour himself.”
“You can tell that from here?” I look at the screen, seeing nothing that would indicate temperature problems.
“I can see the heat distortion around the oven door. The way the air moves. He will burn the outside while the centre remains uncooked.”
Sure enough, when the timer goes off and the man pulls out his cake, it’s burned on the outside and raw in the middle. He looks devastated. I feel a pang of sympathy for him. That must be awful, failing so publicly.
“I told you,” Dis says with grim satisfaction. “He fought without proper preparation. This is the resultof insufficient planning and failure to verify one’s equipment.”
“He didn’t fight. He baked.”
“It is the same principle. You face your challenge with skill and strategy, or you fall to defeat.”
The judges are kind about the burned cake. Their feedback is gentle and constructive. They encourage him, tell him what went well, suggest what he might do differently next time. It’s so different from what I’m used to. Different from the way I was taught, where failure was met with scorn and punishment.
Dis watches this with visible confusion, his brow furrowing. “Why do they comfort him? He failed. His cake is ruined. In any reasonable competition, this would be met with scorn.”
“Because it’s not about destroying people,” I say quietly, thinking about all the times I was torn apart for my failures, all the times I was told I wasn’t good enough. “It’s about helping them improve.”
“That is a strange approach to competition. Surely harsh criticism would yield better results, would motivate them to excellence through shame.”
“Maybe. Or maybe people perform better when they’re not being torn apart every time they make a mistake.”
I’m thinking about myself, about how I’ve spent years believing I was worthless because that’s what I was told. Maybe if someone had been kind instead, I’d be different now.
Dis considers this, his expression thoughtful. “An interesting theory.”
“It’s not a theory. It’s just... being decent to people. Treating them with kindness even when they fail.”
“In the Shadow Realm, failure is met with consequences. Not comfort. Not encouragement.”
There’s something in his voice when he says this, something that sounds almost like exhaustion.
I look at him properly. He’s still staring at the TV, but there’s something tight in his expression, something that speaks to years of living in a world where kindness is weakness and compassion is dangerous.
“That sounds exhausting,” I say quietly.
“It is what I know.”
The words are simple, but they carry weight. They carry centuries of survival, of never being able to let his guard down, of always having to be perfect or die.
The episode ends, and the next one starts automatically. I should probably turn it off, make dinner, do something productive with my evening. But I don’t move, and Dis doesn’t ask me to change it. We just keep sitting here, existing in the same space, and it’s nice in a way that terrifies me.
“You know,” I say during a commercial break, “for someone who’s supposed to be this terrifying weapon, you’re surprisingly invested in cake.”
His eyes flash with something like indignation. “I am not invested in cake. I am appreciating excellence in all its forms.”
“Sure, Disney. Whatever you say.”
His eye twitches at the nickname, but he doesn’t argue, just turns back to the screen with a huff that’s almost endearing.
We keep watching. Someone makes a terrible cake. Someone makes a beautiful one. Dis has opinions about all of it, a constant stream of commentary that’s simultaneously hilarious and oddly insightful.
Someone on screen burns their signature bake badly. Dis makes a satisfied sound. “I knew they would. Their timing was off from the beginning.”
