Evil MC's NTR Harem

One of the boys, emboldened by the group's success, walked toward Ross with a smug grin on his face.

It was Franco—young, fit, always loud, always pushing his luck.

He lifted the empty rice cooker in one hand and the soup pot in the other, shaking both.

"Hey, Big D," Franco called with a mock-sweet tone.

"Time for dinner, my guy! Oh wait… it's all gone! Guess you'll just have to eat in your dreams tonight."

He tilted the pot theatrically. Not a drop of soup was left. "Damn, even the steam's gone. We really cleaned up."

A few people laughed. Nervous, unsure, but laughter nonetheless.

"Don't waste your breath, Franco," Trevor said from behind him, arms crossed, his tone dismissive. "Big Dumb ain't worth the calories. Let the dog starve."

But as soon as the words left his mouth, Ross moved.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't glare.

He just stood up.

The tension in the room snapped taut.

Franco froze. Trevor fell quiet. Everyone stopped eating, talking, or pretending not to care.

All eyes shifted to Ross, who rose slowly from his oversized seat with the calm, deliberate movements of someone who was in control—and knew it.

He stretched slightly, the fabric of his black shirt tightening around his chest and shoulders.

Then he tilted his head, as if mildly amused by the entire spectacle.

No words.

Just that cold, unreadable stare behind the mask.

Franco swallowed hard and lowered the pots.

Trevor took an unconscious step back.

The rest of the housemates watched in dead silence, hearts pounding.

Ross looked at the empty table, the spotless pots, and the crumbs on their plates.

Then, slowly, he turned and walked away—calm, quiet, without a single word.

And yet somehow, that said more than any outburst ever could.

After he disappeared into the hallway, no one dared speak.

The room was filled with tension and one single, lingering thought:

What the hell is he going to do next?

They didn't have to wonder long.

While the rest of the housemates ate their dinner outside by the swimming pool, basking in their quiet victory over Ross, something shifted.

A faint aroma drifted through the open patio doors—something warm, rich, and utterly unexpected.

At first, no one paid it much attention. But within minutes, the scent grew stronger. It was fragrant, layered, and mouthwatering.

Someone wrinkled their nose and looked around. "What the hell is that smell?"

Another contestant glanced toward the house. "Wait… is that… food?"

"The fuck?" a guy muttered, sniffing the air like a hound. "Is Big Dumb actually cooking in there?"

That got everyone's attention.

A few exchanged skeptical looks before curiosity got the better of them.

One by one, they rose from their seats and cautiously made their way back into the house.

What they found stopped them in their tracks.

The kitchen was alive.

Ross stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, moving with smooth, precise motions.

Knives flashed in the overhead light as he chopped vegetables at lightning speed.

A sizzling pan sang on the stove while steam curled from a pot beside it, releasing bursts of complex, intoxicating aromas.

He didn't speak. He didn't even look up.

But his hands were a blur of efficiency, working with the kind of confidence that only came from years of experience.

"Holy shit," someone whispered. "Is he, like… a professional chef or something?"

"He's moving so fast. Look at the way he handles those knives!"

"He's—he's not even trying, and it's like watching one of those cooking competitions on TV."

More housemates crowded into the kitchen doorway, wide-eyed and silent.

Even the ones who had mocked him earlier stood there, stunned.

Ross wasn't just cooking—he was commanding the kitchen like it belonged to him.

He moved with rhythm, grace, and a quiet intensity that was almost hypnotic.

Every motion was purposeful. Every ingredient was handled with care.

It was less like preparing a meal and more like… performing.

He was dancing between counters, spinning from stove to sink and back again.

Oil hissed, spices hit hot pans with a burst of fragrance, and the entire house seemed to melt into that sound, that smell, that presence.

No music played.

And yet it felt like there was a beat—his beat—and he was in perfect sync with it.

The crowd didn't speak. They didn't dare. They just watched, mesmerized.

"I can't believe it. He's… actually amazing in the kitchen."

"I feel like I just watched a live episode of MasterChef."

The woman who had insulted him earlier looked down at her half-eaten plate of cold rice and over-salted beef and muttered,

"Shit... we messed with the wrong guy."

But no one dared go after Ross now.

He had made his move—quiet, sharp, and unforgettable.

And suddenly, the house felt very different.

Ten minutes later, Ross was done.

He stepped back from the stove, wiped his hands on a towel, and calmly plated his food without sparing a single glance at the group still standing near the kitchen entrance.

Whatever he had cooked, it was impossible to tell just by looking—but the smell said everything.

Savory. Rich. Mouthwatering.

It filled the entire house like a spell.

And then it happened.

"Grrrgg..."

One stomach growled. Then another. Then another.

Like a chain reaction, a chorus of hunger echoed through the kitchen and into the hallway beyond.

Heads turned, eyes widened, and everyone exchanged awkward glances.

They had just eaten.

Rice, soup, leftovers—the works.

But none of it compared to this.

The aroma of Ross's meal clung to their senses, teased their tongues, and awakened a whole new wave of hunger they hadn't expected.

Saliva pooled in mouths that had no reason to still be hungry. But the body doesn't lie.

One of the boys muttered under his breath, "Why does it smell better than everything we cooked put together?"

Another girl clutched her stomach and whispered, "I swear I was full ten minutes ago... but now I'm starving."