episode 2:from spy to cinderella

Mornings with Inaya were sacred-quiet, precise, untouchable.

Wake up.

Make tea.

Boots on.

Silence mode.

No questions.

No nonsense.

But today, her peace was interrupted.

"Good morning, mentor."

She paused, turned, and sighed. "We've talked about this," she said.

Wali grinned like the sun had personally complimented his outfit.

"Yes! You said I'm not hired. But I believe in volunteering!"

This is not a charity.

Checkpoint: At the academy

It's close to the apartment, like a 10-minute walk.

Raif spotted them near the gate.

"NO!"

Inaya: "What?"

Raif: "You didn't actually let him come with you, did you?"

Inaya: "I didn't."

Raif: "He's following you like a sponsored puppy."

Wali: "I'm volunteering and doing an internship."

Raif: "You'll suffer secondhand embarrassment."

She brushed past him.

Wali: "You talk too much, you'll make me unemployed."

Raif: "Bye, dude. I'll visit your funeral."

The lecture incident:

Inaya's lecture on tactical silence and stealth tactics was going great until Wali raised his hand. She ignored it. He waved harder.

"Yes?" she finally snapped.

He stood like a proud inventor.

"In a dangerous mission, how do we eat snacks silently?"

The entire room paused. Silence. Someone coughed. Another held back a laugh. A chair creaked.

"Leave!" Inaya said.

Wali:

"Leave the snack? Or the room? Or the solar system?"

Someone in the third row nearly choked on their water.

Inaya capped her marker.

"Does anyone else have questions of equal brilliance before I lose my mind?"

Silence.

Wali sank back into his seat.

"Just curious," he mumbled.

After class, Inaya walked out.

Footsteps followed.

She didn't turn.

"Why are you still following me?"

Wali: "I have ideas! Plans! A prototype-Slide 1: Hire Waleed Elang. Slide 2: Hire me. Slide 3: Please."

“Inayaaa.”

A voice rang out—bright, bold, slightly dramatic—just as Inaya reached the apartment building.

She paused mid-step.

No need to turn. She knew that voice.

Yuna Moreau.

Her roommate. An artist. Her oldest mistake and longest-standing friend.

Korean—though somehow ended up in the city of Auris.

Yuna painted like she breathed: recklessly, passionately, brilliantly. Galleries loved her. Critics weren’t sure if they were being challenged or insulted. Inaya once called her work “mildly violent color theory with good marketing.” Yuna had laughed for five minutes straight.

They met in a silent study café in high school. Inaya claimed the quietest table, all equations, and zero tolerance. Yuna crashed in with sketchpads, bubble tea, and loud commentary. They clashed immediately. They’ve been inseparable ever since.

Total opposites. Perfect balance.

Yuna, sleeves smudged with paint and chaos, caught up and glanced at the stranger beside Inaya. She grinned.

“Okay, who’s the K-drama lead at our door?”

Wali blinked, unsure whether to speak or smile.

Tall. Effortlessly messy in a way that looked almost intentional. Gray eyes like they held either too many secrets—or none at all. Sun-warmed skin, soft jawline, and the vague aura of someone who just stumbled into the scene by accident.

He looked like a mistake you don’t regret.

Yuna raised an eyebrow. “Seriously. Is he real?”

Wali, startled, cleared his throat. “I’m… her assistant.”

Inaya dryly said,“No.”

Yuna (teasing): “Would you like to join us for dinner, Mr. Assistant?”

Wali (without hesitation): “Yeah.”

Inaya stepped silently into the lift.

The two followed, chatting like old friends. Yuna had just returned from a three-day art exhibition. Her luggage still smelled like acrylic and ambition.

At the apartment

Wali stepped inside—and froze.

A mug perched precariously on top of a leaning tower of books. The fridge stood wide open like it had given up. Dirty laundry spilled from beneath a fort of throw pillows. Dishes and snack wrappers formed a postmodern sculpture on every surface.

Wali (muttering)

“Did a small tornado pass through here… or did it just never leave?”

Yuna, entering behind him, grinned. “I missed this mess. It has character.”

Then, with a laugh: “I call it: Unfinished Greatness, Featuring Our Laundry.”

Inaya turned, arms crossed, and fixed Wali with a look.

“Since you’re so desperate to be useful—congratulations. You’re hired.”

She tossed him a towel.

“First mission: tame this disaster.”

Wali blinked. “...Is this part of the spy training?”

Inaya, already walking away: “Yes. Espionage starts with dishwashing.”

Yuna laughed and nudged Inaya’s arm. “I’ll clean it, don’t worry. She's been in research ghost mode all week. You sit, Mr. Assistant.”

Inaya shook her head, firm but fond, and grabbed Yuna’s hand. “Nope. You just got back. You’re off-duty.”

They vanished upstairs, leaving Wali alone on the battlefield of socks, mugs, and mysterious crumbs.

Wali standing alone in the chaos.

He glanced around the apartment.

[ Two floors. First floor: kitchen, dining, living room, and a small library. Second floor: three rooms — an office, an art studio, and a bedroom — plus a wide balcony. In front of the balcony, a tiny café corner.]

Wali sighed.

> "I came for dinner and a spy job... but got cast as Cinderella."

The apartment was silent.

Too silent.

He stared at the battlefield before him — teetering mugs, a fridge hanging open like it had lost the will to live, laundry that looked like it had been in a fight and lost.

Wali (to himself):

“Alright, Waleed. You survived worse. Border crossings. That one rogue camel in Morocco. You can survive this.”

He rolled up his sleeves.

Wali (dramatically):

“For justice. For order. For... hygiene.”

He started with the dishes — one by one, stacking them with the precision of a bomb defusal expert. Then the cushions — he karate-chopped them back into shape like they insulted his ancestors.

The fridge door? Closed like a boss.

The pillows? Refluffed.

The laundry? Sorted (mostly) by smell.

Thirty minutes in, he was feeling confident. Too confident.

He filled a bucket, dipped the mop, and began swiping across the floor with flair.

Wali (singing to himself):

“Spy by day… Cinderella by Ni— WHOA—”

Upstairs

Inaya (calmly):

“So… how was the exhibition?”

Yuna (beaming):

“Sold three pieces, got interviewed twice, and one guy offered to buy my sketchbook for an insane amount. I said no, obviously. That thing’s got stick figures and trauma in it.”

Inaya raised an eyebrow, amused despite herself.

Yuna (continuing):

“Oh—Mom sent some traditional herbal food and drinks for you. Said it’s good for ‘the hardworking mind.’ You should try it while you’re buried in research.”

Inaya nodded, folding her hands.

“Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”

Yuna tilted her head, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“So… how’s the spy life? Or should I say, how are your two lives going? Any new cases? You know, I’m still waiting for some juicy stories.”By the way, isn't he the pilot?

CRASH.

One step.

The wet floor.

A betrayal.

His foot flew, arms flailed, bucket tipped — and he landed flat on his back, soaked in a puddle of dirty water, the mop smacking him in the face like a final insult.

A loud splash echoed from below. A pause.

Wali (yelling from downstairs):

“I REGRET NOTHING!”

Yuna (blinking):

“…That didn’t sound good.”

“...Did something explode?!”

Inaya:

“That better not be the espresso machine—”

Yuna:“…What did he do?”

Inaya (already turning):

“Something stupid. Let’s go.”

They rushed down the stairs

Wali was on the floor, drenched in mop water, lying flat like a tragic cartoon character. The mop lay across his chest like a defeated sword. The bucket rolled to a stop beside a chair.

Yuna (bursting into laughter):

“Oh my goodness—are you alive?!”

Inaya (coldly):

“What did you break?”

Wali (getting up, dripping):

“I’m okay. Just doing my duty! Freely

Yuna:

“Leave it, I’ll finish cleaning. “Take him to the bathroom. He’ll catch a cold. Give him something to wear.”

Inaya (sighing): “This way. Try not to slip again.”

She disappeared into her room. A moment later, she tossed him an oversized pink hoodie with a cartoon bunny on the front.

Then came the pajama pants — bright floral, loose, faded, vibrantly embarrassing.

Wali (holding them up): “…This looks like something a grandma wore to scare birds off a rice field.”

Inaya (deadpan): “You’re soaked. Unless you want to drip across my floors in wet pants...”

She turned and walked off.

By the time Wali changed, the apartment was calm. Yuna had cleaned the place like a whirlwind with better music taste. She was now at the dining table, unboxing containers.

Yuna (calling out): “Mom sent food! Dumplings, kimchi rice, and that weird herbal drink you like.”

Inaya poured herself a cup, ignoring Yuna’s grin.

Then—

Soft footsteps.

Wali emerged, shoulders slumped.

Pink hoodie. Cartoon bunny. Floral pants straight out of a kindergarten teacher’s nightmare.

Yuna looked up—and burst into laughter.

Yuna (wheezing): “Stop—don’t move—you look like a cartoon villain who gave up and opened a bakery.”

Inaya looked up. Her lips twitched. She bit the inside of her cheek. The smile snuck out anyway.

Wali (adjusting the hoodie, faking confidence): “You know what? I like it. Bold. Fashionable. Paris Fashion Week — but make it psychologically damaging.”

Yuna: “Come on, Mister Trendy. Food’s getting cold.”

He shuffled over in his floral pajama pants like he was walking a runway no one asked for. He joined the dining table, eyeing the spread like he hadn't eaten in days.

The aroma hit him: steamed dumplings, spiced rice, crispy seaweed, and something simmering in a ceramic thermos that smelled… suspiciously herbal and vaguely threatening.

Wali (eyeing the herbal drink):

“…Did someone steep moss in regret?”

Yuna (cheerfully):

“My mom calls it ‘soul tea.’ Good for heartbreak, parasites, and emotional damage.”

Inaya (dry):

“It’ll definitely kill something.”

Wali (raising his cup):

“Cool. Can’t wait.”

He took a sip.

He paused.

Wali (grimacing):

“…Okay yeah. That tastes like betrayal.”

(beat)

“Can I go back to the mop?"

He reached for a dumpling. Yuna passed him the rice. Everything felt almost normal — too normal

Then Yuna tilted her head and smirked.

“So… you’re the pilot who couldn’t handle a plane?”

Wali froze.

“Wait—what?!”

Yuna shrugged, still cheerful.

“I’m not an agent. Just painfully observant. And you’re not exactly low-profile, Mr. Crashed-A-Plane.”

Wali stared between them.

“Okay. So… just to be clear. You know she’s a secret agent, and you’re just… cool with that?”

Yuna smiled sweetly.

“As long as she doesn’t hide bodies in the fridge, I’m good.”

Wali (quietly):

“…I feel like I walked into the wrong genre.”

Inaya (without looking up):

“You did.”

Yuna shrugged, still cheerful.

“I’m not an agent. Just painfully observant. And you’re not exactly low-profile, Mr. Crashed-A-Jet.”

Wali stared between them.

“Okay. So… just to be clear. You know she’s a secret agent, and you’re just… cool with that?”

Yuna smiled sweetly.

“As long as she doesn’t hide bodies in the fridge, I’m good.”

Wali (quietly):

“…I feel like I walked into the wrong genre.”

Inaya (without looking up):

“You did.”

Wali (muttering, defensive):

“For the record, I am a good pilot. I was just… nervous. That jet had too many buttons.”

Yuna laughed, an easy, carefree sound.

“Cool. Nervous pilots are my favorite kind of entertainment.”

Inaya finally looked up, arching a brow.

“Dinner’s getting cold.”

They finished the rest of the meal in relative silence, though Wali kept casting suspicious glances at the fridge.

Eventually, Wali stood, brushing crumbs off his borrowed hoodie.

“My clothes dry?”

Yuna checked the small heater by the corner.

“Yep. Still wrinkled but wearable. Like your pride.”

Wali shot her a look but smirked anyway.

“Thanks for the rice. And the subtle emotional damage.”

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