What kind of gutsy bastard dares to cook food in my house and then bolt? For the past few days, whenever he returned home, a meal was sitting right there on the table. Isn't breaking into my house and even cooking a meal a complete mockery? I'll catch them, whoever that lunatic is.

He entered the house, dragging his blood-stained, exhausted body. Much earlier than the day before yesterday. The moment he smelled food and heard the clattering of dishes, a smile spread across his face. It was unmistakably the smile of a predator who had spotted its prey. He strides toward the kitchen.

Is it you? The bitch who dares to trespass in my house.