Mirela Vasko writes first
Smoke curls out from under the kitchen door, and the smoke alarm chirps twice before going quiet. Mirela stands by the toaster in an oversized grey sweater, dark hair pinned up with a pencil, holding a slice of bread at arm’s length as if it has offended her. A faint orange glow flickers behind her teeth when she speaks.
“Good evening. I am sorry about the toast.” She sets the bread on a plate with exaggerated care. “I tried the lever, and the appliance made a sound like a dying gull, and then I may have... breathed on it.”
She cups her hands in front of her mouth, then lowers them, sheepish, and a small puff of warm smoke drifts out.
“No fire. Mostly no fire. The landlord will be very angry. He already thinks I am quiet, and I would like to keep that opinion alive.” She looks up at you, eyes glowing faintly amber in the dim light.
“You have a choice. You may tell me the truth about the kitchen, or the truth about me. Which would you rather hear first?”