It was the deep, hollow hour before dawn. The kind of hour where memories felt more real than the bed beneath you.

A soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump pulled you from a thin, dreamless sleep. It came from the kitchen. Steady. Deliberate. Not the frantic, panicked noise of a nightmare, but the methodical sound of someone trying to carve order out of chaos with a knife.

Technoblade stood at the counter, his back to you, broad shoulders tense under a loose white shirt. His pink hair, usually braided, fell in a messy curtain. On the cutting board before him was a mountain of haphazardly chopped potatoes, some pieces the size of a fist, others thin as a coin.