Ortol says we're having dinner with important people. Doesn't tell me who. Just ‘important people.’

  So, naturally, I assume politicians, warlords, or the type of folks who wear sunglasses indoors. Nope. Turns out, they're trillionaires. The kind of people whose family trees are watered with money. The kind who don't just own planets—they build them.

  Meet the Impulse family. They run the Silver bloodline, a dynasty with financial roots so deep in Mecanet’s foundations they probably earn royalties every time someone breathes there.

  First glance at them, they seem normal. Second glance, you realize their hair is literal silver. Third glance, you start questioning your own existence.

  As we approach the dining room, Ortol leans in and whispers, "Veyra and Vortan Impulse. The matriarch and patriarch. Watch what you say."

  Noted.

  The matriarch, with curls like spun glass, has a face carved into the very essence of ‘strict grandmother.’ A dust particle touches her hair and gets sliced in half. Not joking. Vortan, meanwhile, is the human embodiment of perfect posture, his hair a radiant silver that almost seems to shimmer in and out of focus, like it’s too bright for this reality.

  We sit at a long, stupidly shiny dining table. Veyra, with a wave of her ring-adorned hand, introduces their daughter—Vandetta Impulse.

  She doesn’t look up. Just studies her nails, tilting her hand like she’s admiring a work of art.

  "You’re staring," she says. Voice smooth, detached.

  I blink. "You noticed."

  Now she looks at me. Eyes silver like her hair, expressing amusement. She waves her fingers lazily. "Congratulations."

  I swallow my heart.

  Ortol clears his throat. "This is my brother, Jrake."

  Silence. Heavy. Intentional. The air’s thick enough to chew.

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  Veyra's gaze pins me like I’m some questionable ingredient on her plate. "Brother?" She rolls the word on her tongue, tasting it for poison.

  Ortol nods, all stiff and proper.

  Vortan hums, swirling his wine. "We weren’t aware you had siblings."

  "I do," Ortol says.

  "I’m real," I offer, ever the team player.

  Vandetta smirks. "Cute."

  The doors fly open. Wind rushes in. The violinists appear like harbingers of doom. Enter Chef Laurent, a man sculpted by the deities of food purely for dramatic entrances. His mustache alone could host an opera.

  "Ah, mes amis!" he proclaims. "We begin with Le Criquet de Feu!"

  Crickets. Boiled alive, dried to death, marinated in volcanic salt. Ortol’s already eating them. "You gonna eat that?"

  I slide him my plate. Enjoy.

  Vandetta tilts her head at me. "Not adventurous?"

  "I prefer my meal to have never screamed."

  She hums. "A shame."

  Next up: Soupe de Racine Fant?me. A tree’s soul, they say. Bitter enough to make warriors weep, then gone like a ghost. Laurent watches me take a spoonful. My face contorts. My soul leaves my body. Then... nothing. Just bland. A void. Laurent claps. Moving on.

  Then, Les Pierres Brunes. Looks like fossilized dino crap. Ortol munches like it's candy. "You'll love it," he says. I take a bite. Nutty. Caramelized. Not bad.

  And then—L’Oeil de L’Océan. A fish that could swallow a man whole. They serve me its eternal scream. I pass.

  Viande Solaire comes next. Meat kissed by the sun, they say. I once swore to a goat I’d never eat meat again. Ortol waves a piece at me. I eat it. Sorry, goat.

  Pain de Pierre et Fromage du Diable. The bread? A weapon. The cheese? Alive. I bite. I regret.

  And finally—La Bulle Céleste. The masterpiece. The pinnacle of culinary excellence. One bite, and—

  Ortol interrupts.

  He stands, voice trembling but words firm. "We’re grateful for your generosity," he says, shivering hands clasped in front of him like he’s holding himself together. "Your investments built the domes. They gave people a future. Without you, this city wouldn’t exist." He swallows, glancing at Vortan. "And now… you’re looking beyond. Another galaxy. More habitable planets. More opportunities."

  Vortan points his fork at Ortol. "More profit."

  Ortol nods stiffly. "Yes. But also… a future worth having."

  A silence settles over the table and I have one word for it.

  Awwwkwaaaard.

  Can’t complain. Their cash keeps our sky intact.

  They nod, sip their wine, then glance around. "Where is our son?" Veyra asks casually.

  Vandetta twirls her spoon through her dessert, slowly and carefully. "Out," she says. "Trying to find the guy who cut his hand."

  Ortol's eyes widen. "Someone cut his hand?"

  Vortan waves him off. "It happens."

  I nearly snort bubbles through my nose. Losing hands is just... normal. For rich people, I guess.

  Vandetta hums, tapping her spoon against her plate. "He’s always been sentimental about his pain," she says. "Likes to hold onto it. Well, used to."

  She flicks a glance at Ortol, watching his reaction. The barest smirk tugs at her lips.

  Ortol doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I know that look—the one where he’s biting down on a memory. His hand twitches against his leg, barely there.

  Vandetta notices. Her smirk widens.

  I don't know what Ortol did to get these people on his side, but the way she’s looking at him? Yeah. Feels less like support and more like a debt he isn't done paying.

  Vortan leans back, steepling his fingers. "We hope this investment will be worth it."

  Ortol nods, stiff as a corpse. "It will be. For the better."

  Vandetta leans in, her silver eyes catching the dim candlelight. "Oh, we’ll see soon enough." Her voice is smooth, indifferent—but something about it makes my skin crawl, like I’ve just heard a threat dressed up as a compliment.

  The night ends. We head home. Ortol doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move much. Just... sits in silence.

  Then, finally, he breaks.

  His hands clench, his shoulders trembling. A ragged breath. Then another. He presses his palms to his eyes like he can hold it all in, but the crack is there. And once it starts, he can't stop.

  "I’m trying." A shaky breath. "Really... I am.”

  I don’t know how to reassure him. I don’t know what to say. Comfort’s not my thing. So I do what I always do.

  I bitch slap him.

  Which dish would you actually try?