Fifteen minutes later, Mateo found himself seated inside a low-hover bus with tinted windows, watching the buildings of Capital Crest rise like crystal bones under the moon. The city shimmered in a way Ashdrift never had. Cleaner. Sharper. He pressed his palm against the cool glass, remembering the grit that used to coat everything back there—dust from collapsed buildings, ash from distant fires. Here, even the air tasted sterile.
Something twisted in his chest. While he'd been training to kill, these people had been living.
Mateo sat by the window, Switch beside him.
"I can't believe this," Switch whispered from a few seats behind. "Actual food. In an actual city. Aren't you tired of the plain rice and chicken they keep giving us?"
Mateo nodded, though the enthusiasm felt foreign on his tongue. In the Academy, they prioritized nourishment over enjoyment, so their food was always high-protein, but it was always tasteless and bland. At least there, the blandness matched the reality of what they were preparing for. This abundance felt like a lie.
The bus hummed smoothly down the freeway, then dipped into the lower levels of the city, weaving past neon signs and market alleyways until it stopped in front of a modest glass-paneled building with a hand-painted sign above the door:
THE GARDEN FLAME
The twelve of them, plus Reeves, stepped out of the bus as she paid the driver, and onto the pavement. The moon gleamed overhead, the neon signs blindingly bright, advertising products in commercials, playing the next trend on the bright screens on the skyscrapers. The artificial light washed everywhere, almost as bright as day itself.
Some passersby ooh'ed and aah'ed when they passed by the students—not in awe, just in mild excitement. People walked around glued to their phones or chatting with friends, shopping bags swinging from their arms.
It was jarring to Mateo. Back in Ashdrift, at the edge of the nation, there was constant tension in the speech and body language of the people. These people showed none of that anxiousness or fear. They laughed too easily, moved too carelessly.
Almost like the war didn't exist to them.
"You coming, Mateo?" Ben said as he walked into the shop through the doors.
Right. Mateo didn't realize he had been staring, his hands clenched at his sides.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and full of life—redwood booths, orange lanterns, and an open kitchen. It smelled like grilled meat and oil and fresh buns. The warmth should have been comforting.
He didn't know why, but he had almost expected a five-star restaurant with white tablecloth and wine, half because he thought it would be fitting to splurge since from this point onwards, they would literally be fighting for their lives, and partly because he deduced Akira grew up in the city—so she must have been pretty rich.
The restaurant felt more homely than anything. A few customers sat and ate while others turned to look at the twelve new heroes walking through the door. Their curious stares felt heavy, expectant. Heroes. The word sat wrong in his mouth.
"Welcome, welcome!" boomed a voice from the back.
Mateo turned to see a stout man with a heavy apron and crow-feather-black hair stepping out from the kitchen. His face was worn, not by age but by kindness—the kind of weathered softness that came from feeding people, from small acts of care. When his eyes landed on Akira, he grinned. Wide.
"There's my girl."
Akira stopped mid-step, visibly bracing herself, her shoulders going rigid. "Dad."
The man walked up and threw one arm around her in a brief, firm hug—the kind that tried to bridge too much distance in too little time. Then he pulled back, a little awkward, like he was unsure how much affection was too much. The hesitation in his movement spoke of old wounds, careful navigation around things left unsaid.
Then he turned to Reeves, the woman still clad in military gear, and stretched out his hand. "Commander Reeves."
"Hayato Mori. Chef. Veteran." She said sternly.
"You don't have to call me all that," Hayato said, scratching his neck, but something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. "Just Hayato is fine."
Then he turned to the rest of them. "What would be your orders? I hope they've been feeding you alright in the Academy. Last I remember, the food was horrible."
That was something Mateo agreed with. But something piqued his interest in how Reeves had addressed him. Veteran. Did that mean he'd fought in the war before? And then he'd left? To start a restaurant in the city while others were still dying? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, though he couldn't quite say why.
"I'll just have a soju," Reeves said as she motioned the others towards the counter to take their orders. Akira returned to the group of girls with an awkward look on her face.
Mateo walked to the counter where other cooks were serving plates of REAL food, the plates steaming, sending an intoxicating waft into his nostrils. His stomach growled, and he hadn't realized how desperately he wanted this—this normalcy, this simple pleasure—when nothing about their situation was normal.
The others were talking to the other cooks, so Mateo approached the one that wasn't occupied.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, his voice coming out deeper than he expected because of the mask. He hoped he didn't sound too awkward. "I'd like to take my ord—"
His words died in his mouth as the cook turned around to face him.
"I thought that voice sounded familiar!" The old man said cheerfully in a vague Chinese accent, the skin around his eyes crinkling with age and happiness—genuine happiness that hit Mateo like a physical blow.
"Shinji?" Mateo choked out, almost not believing his eyes as he pulled off his mask so Shinji could see him properly. The familiar face was both a relief and an ache, a reminder of everything he'd left behind.
"In the flesh!" Shinji said as he clasped Mateo's forearm in his palm, the grip warm and solid and real. "I thought I'd never see you again! How've you been holding up, kid?"
I thought I'd never see you again too, Mateo thought, the words catching in his throat. The last time they'd seen each other, they were parting ways at the arcade which Shinji had just closed permanently. He'd known that Shinji would be coming to the Capital, but he'd never really thought they'd run into each other.
"So you found a new job?" Mateo asked, stating the obvious as Shinji stood there clad in the brown and black apron.
"Yes, far easier than I expected," Shinji replied, nodding his head vigorously. "Hayato's a good man. He's been helping people running from the war-affected zones by giving them jobs."
It was then that Mateo glanced to his side and really saw the other workers. They didn't have the healthy skin or bright, unconcerned expressions like the residents outside. They still looked a little hollow. Shaken. Refugees, like Shinji. Like him, in a way. The thought made his chest tight—all these displaced people, trying to rebuild something resembling normalcy while the world fell apart around them.
"But enough about me!" Shinji laughed while his classmates were taking their orders and receiving their food. "How have you been holding up?"
His eyes traveled over Mateo's suit, taking in all the equipment with something that might have been pride. "Just one week and you're already a fully-fledged hero?"
"That's an exaggeration," Mateo said, managing a small chuckle as his classmates took their food and went to sit down at the booths. The word 'hero' still felt like armor that didn't fit right for some reason.
Shinji caught the hesitation and did a face-palm. "Ah, don't let this old man take all of your time. What do you want to eat?"
Mateo looked at the board where the food options were displayed. From plates of grilled cheese sandwiches to teriyaki, from fried chicken to rice bowls with dumplings and others—they were all served at the Garden Flame.
The variety was almost intimidating to Mateo, this abundance of choice when for so long his choices had been narrowed down to survival, until something else caught his attention.
A burger. Not just any burger—a massive burger with multiple patties, cheese, bacon, and other toppings. Mateo's mouth watered despite himself.
"I'll have that burger," Mateo said, pointing to the board.
Shinji turned his head to where Mateo was pointing. "The Monster Burger?"
A fitting name. "Yeah."
Shinji frowned, his expression turning almost paternal. "Boy, that thing would probably give you diabetes, quadruple your cholesterol and blood sugar levels, and then give you a heart attack. You sure you want that?"
For the first time in a long while, Mateo smiled.. "Yes, Shinji. I'd like that."
The old man shrugged and began preparing the meal in the back, since the core ingredients were already done.
Mateo looked around while he waited, hoping his request wouldn't take too long. The natural light from glass bulbs on the ceiling cast a soothing, orange glow over the rest of the restaurant. Displays of red and yellow flowers were arranged around the shop, giving it a sense of warmth and life that felt almost foreign after weeks in the sterile Academy.
In the corner, his classmates were huddled together in a booth, chatting between bites, their voices carrying the kind of easy camaraderie that came with shared hardship. At another table, he could see Hayato strolling up to Reeves to give her the bottle of soju she'd ordered. After he opened it, they kept talking, their heads bent close together. By the man's posture and the way Reeves' shoulders had relaxed slightly, it didn't look like simple small talk.
"Your order's ready," Shinji said, snapping Mateo from his thoughts. The steaming monster burger sat in front of him, absurdly large and indulgent. "I'll warn you though—the first bite will taste like heaven. The second one will take you there."
Mateo chuckled a little at the joke, then startled as he reached into his pocket. Wasn't he supposed to pay?
Shinji's brows relaxed in understanding. "If you're thinking about paying, don't worry about it. Hayato said that lady there is going to cover the bill."
Then he leaned forward and winked. "Even if she wasn't, I'd foot the bill, even if it cut through my wages."
"I appreciate it, Shinji," Mateo said, and he truly did. The kindness felt overwhelming. It made him want things he couldn't afford to want.
"Ah, don't worry about it! I know it's only been a week, but you look taller!" Then Shinji's tone grew more serious, his eyes taking in the shadows under Mateo's eyes, the way he held himself like he was ready for attack. "And like you haven't slept in weeks. War preparations?"
"Yeah. It's a lot. But I made it this far."
"I know. You always were stubborn." Shinji squeezed his shoulder, his eyes dimming a little with something that looked like grief. "I'm proud of you."
Mateo's throat tightened as he recalled what Shinji had said that day at the arcade—about the son he'd lost. Did he see that ghost every time he looked at Mateo? The thought made him want to pull away, to spare Shinji that pain, but he couldn't move. The warmth of that pride felt too much like what he'd been missing, too much like what he might not survive long enough to earn again.
"Thank you, Shinji," he said finally, giving a small bow of his head. He turned around to walk back to the booth, the burger heavy in his hands. Then he turned his neck back to him. "Take care of yourself."
"You too, Mateo." Shinji chuckled, but there was something fragile in it, like he was trying not to say goodbye. "You too."
That almost undid him. Mateo had to sit down fast to keep his face from showing too much. When he looked up, searching for distraction, he noticed that Hayato was no longer with Reeves. She sat alone now, staring into her soju with an expression that suggested their conversation had ended on a note that wasn't entirely pleasant.