We enter, and something close to safety settles in me, faint but enough to remind me that I had been without it. The cafeteria is nothing ordinary. Long stone tables stretch across the hall, carved from the same ancient material as the rest of HQ, their surfaces smooth and worn. They are aligned with near-ritual precision. The light remains clear and stable, without excess warmth. Soldiers sit, eat, speak in low voices, or remain silent, their movements contained.

  None of that holds my attention for long, because at the center of the room stands the one everyone is here for. The kitchen is not pushed to the back; it occupies the middle of the cafeteria in a circular formation of stone, anchored like a core. Around him, the work surfaces form a perfect ring, already arranged with food, utensils, and containers prepared for use. Pots hang in measured intervals, plates are embedded directly into the rock, blades are aligned, cutting boards placed exactly where they should be. I stop without noticing that I have stopped.

  évra’s voice reaches us without breaking the atmosphere.

  “I present to you… Tony.”

  She lets the name settle.

  “The head chef.”

  Her gaze shifts toward the center.

  “The greatest cook I have ever known. No one does what he does.”

  Tony does not react. His apron is stained yet clean, marked by use but maintained. His hands rest calmly in front of him, as if every necessary preparation has already been completed. He is a man in his fifties, gray hair pulled back, eyes clear and attentive. He does not look at us like recruits. He looks at us as people about to eat, and here that seems to matter more than rank.

  “You look like kids lost in a supermarket,” he says.

  His voice is deep and steady, without aggression.

  évra smiles at once.

  “Tony. It’s time for the welcoming ritual. Show them.”

  He exhales, a trace of amusement in the sound.

  “Knowing you, you brought new recruits just for this.”

  “Exactly,” she answers, without embarrassment.

  The shift is subtle but immediate. Conversations thin out. Trays are lowered. Several soldiers rise without being instructed. Anticipation spreads through the room in a low murmur.

  “Tony… Tony… Tony…”

  Fortuna leans forward slightly. Aris uncrosses his arms.

  The air cools. My chest tightens. My vision narrows. Thoughts slow, not by force but by presence. At the center, Tony lifts one hand. When he speaks, his voice fills the space before it reaches the ear.

  “Locutio Cook.”

  The walls dissolve without collapsing. Around him, utensils rise in deliberate sequence. Knives vibrate in place without touching anything. Pans heat without visible flame. Blocks of stone and additional surfaces assemble in the air, extending the kitchen outward as if it is unfolding rather than forming. The ground trembles under a contained pressure. The temperature shifts in waves, warm, then cold, before stabilizing. An expansive, steady energy spreads through the space, firm without crushing.

  The cafeteria vanishes.

  When my sight clears, we are seated at an immense table carved from dark stone, too long for me to see its end. Engraved patterns run along its surface. Above us, floating lights cast constant illumination without flicker.

  “Take your seats.”

  The chairs slide back and press against the backs of our legs. We sit. Aris to my right. évra across from me. Fortuna beside her. The rest of the table stretches into distance, empty and extended.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Tony inhales slowly.

  “Cook’s ingredients.”

  The air distorts around us. Food manifests at eye level in ordered placement. Vegetables, meats, herbs, liquids, spices. Each item holds its own space. Some release warmth, others crisp freshness. The scents overlap but remain distinct.

  The ingredients move. Knives slice without hands. Pans tilt and sear. Liquids pour with exact measure. Every motion follows a purpose. Every transformation responds to a need. Tony does not watch the dishes. His gaze remains on us, studying what is missing rather than what is desired. The cooking answers our bodies. It answers our Words.

  Before I can form a thought, a plate settles in front of me.

  A hamburger. Lettuce, tomato, onion, samurai sauce. Two thick steaks, still steaming, stacked without collapsing the structure. Cheese melts slowly between them. An egg rests on top, and the yolk breaks, flowing down the meat. The plate comes to rest without a sound.

  My throat tightens as hunger hits all at once. Fortuna eats spaghetti bolognese with steady focus, her eyes fixed on her plate. Aris holds sushi with methodical precision, each movement identical to the last. Across from me, évra has an entire sheep turning slowly on a spit. Around it, star-shaped fruits emit faint light. I recognize none of them. Our eyes meet for a moment, uncertain on my side. She answers with a calm smile, as if this is routine.

  “Enjoy.”

  The first bite pushes everything else aside. The bread yields exactly as it should. The steak gives under my teeth. Cheese stretches. I pause only long enough to breathe, then continue. Bite after bite follows without interruption. Taste and warmth fill the space inside me. A glass appears to my right, filled with water at the exact temperature my body expects. I drink and return to the plate.

  When I finish, another hamburger is already waiting. Similar in appearance, heavier in density. I do not question it. I take it and eat again. It disappears. Dessert follows without transition, a large white ice cream placed before me. With each spoonful, tension loosens in places I had not noticed were tight.

  When I lower the spoon, my stomach is full. I remain seated as warmth spreads and settles. A breath escapes me. I close my eyes briefly.

  When I open them, the cafeteria stands as it did before. Tony remains behind his surface, posture unchanged, a discreet smile in place. Around us, soldiers clear their tables. The atmosphere has softened, as if something heavy has been lifted and redistributed.

  A shiver runs along my spine. A faint mechanical clicking enters the air, regular and discreet, the sound of a camera adjusting. Sorto is already walking away. He does not turn. He says nothing.

  évra stands and stretches once. She signals for us to follow, and the corridor returns. Our steps carry more weight than before, but the tension in my mind has eased. She stops in front of a gray door.

  Our dormitory.

  “Training tomorrow. You will suffer. Rest.”

  She leaves without waiting. We enter. A red couch stands against the wall. The television remains dark.

  We sit on the couch at the same time, without looking at each other, as if the decision belonged to our bodies. A long breath leaves the three of us.

  Fortuna speaks first.

  “What a day.”

  I keep my eyes on the blank screen.

  “Why are there so many weapons here?”

  Silence holds for a moment.

  “And so many wounded,” I add.

  Fortuna lets out a short laugh that carries no humor.

  “You’re asking that now?”

  I turn slightly toward her.

  “I’m trying to understand.”

  Aris answers without hesitation.

  “War.”

  I frown.

  “Against who?”

  Fortuna yawns.

  Aris’s voice remains firm.

  “Against demons.”

  “For a long time?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Long enough that no one reacts anymore.”

  I sit in silence. How did I not know this? Demons are treated as common knowledge, accepted without debate. I feel misaligned with the world around me.

  “And are we winning?”

  Fortuna smiles, but there is no joy in it.

  “We’re not losing.”

  Aris completes the thought calmly.

  “We hold the lines. We seal the breaches. We replace those who fall.”

  I look down at my hands.

  “And now, us.”

  Fortuna rises and stretches.

  “Welcome to the food chain.”

  “Good night,” she adds as she walks away.

  Aris stands as well.

  “Rest.”

  He offers nothing more. I remain alone on the couch for a few seconds. Weapons. Wounded. The Colosseum. And a word that no longer unsettles anyone.

  Demons.

  I stand and move toward the bed. The mattress is cold. My body surrenders almost immediately. My thoughts fade without resistance. The dark closes in before I can form a single clear conclusion.