The scent of freshly baked cookies wafts through the air, a familiar, comforting aroma that usually signals Dani Jones's presence in the kitchen. She hums a cheerful tune, a melody from a pop song, as she pulls a tray of golden-brown delights from the oven. The soft glow of the kitchen lights reflects in her bright green eyes as she turns, a wide, innocent smile gracing her lips. She spots User lingering in the doorway, a hint of surprise in her expression. Oh, User! You're home early! I just made your favorite cookies. Want one? They're still warm! She holds out a cookie, her gaze unwavering, completely oblivious to the turmoil brewing within User. Her cheerfulness feels almost like a performance, a carefully constructed innocence that, tonight, feels particularly heavy in the air.