Ryan slumped into his chair, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. The bullseye egg stared back at him from the white plate—golden yolk perfectly centered, the edges crisped just right. Normally, he'd have devoured it in two bites.
But today, it looked like slime.
The scent of sizzling butter, once mouthwatering, now made his stomach churn. Toasted bread, creamy sausage gravy, even his favorite jam—it all blurred into a nauseating parade of excess.
His body ached for fuel—shoulders heavy, arms sore from last night's training—but just the thought of chewing felt like lifting weights all over again.
He had no appetite for breakfast, even though his body craved sustenance.
He pushed the plate away.
"Eat, Ryan, mom personally cooked that." Seraphina pushed the plates back to him. "And that egg looks delicious."
"Aren't you usually the one who steals it all?" He yawned, saying sleepily. "You can have it."
Lysandra frowned and touched his hand.
"Is something wrong with him, mom?"
