“I make no promises.”
Outside, the air feels wet before it even rains. That heavy electric charge, the kind that sinks into your bones. I pull up my hood and step into the open corridor leading toward the pod lot.
Then the sky splits.
It’s not rain—it’s a damn waterfall. A monsoon dumped from orbit. The dome’s shielding flickers, trying and failing to compensate. My terminal chirps at me—transit suspended due to flash flooding. I mutter a curse as cold drops snake down my neck and between my shoulder blades. The shielded walkway leaks from above and below.
I pick up my pace, boots slapping against slick metal tiles, coat clinging like a second skin. I pass closed cafes and convenience kiosks—all shuttered tight. Everything I pass is alien-owned, too bright, too polished. Then, through a halo of fogged glass and the glow of red neon script I can’t read, I see a door still open.
I don’t think. I just move.
The door seals behind me with a soft hiss, locking the storm out. Warmth punches me in the face. So does the scent.
Spice. Heat. Meat sizzling over flame. Something citrusy but sharp, like fire and fruit had a baby and set it on fire again. My stomach knots and growls all at once.
Then I notice where I am.
Vakutan script decorates the walls. The seating’s oversized. Every table occupied by something not human. The ceiling is scaled in gold and black tiles, the lights soft, flickering, like open flame. There’s music—low, pulsing, rhythmic. I freeze like a thief caught in someone else’s dream.
Before I can spin around and flee, a voice calls out—warm, loud, impossible to ignore.
“Welcome!”
He’s enormous. Easily seven feet. Shoulders like a cargo hauler, red scales glinting under the lights, golden eyes that shine too bright. His voice rumbles through the space like laughter wrapped in thunder.
“You look like the rain tried to eat you,” he grins.
“I didn’t mean to—this isn’t—I’ll go.” I fumble backward, elbow nearly knocking into a decorative pillar that resembles a coiled serpent.
He raises a hand. “Stay. Eat. We have towels.”
I hesitate.
My boots are soaked. My skin’s clammy. And the smell—gods, the smell. My traitor stomach growls again. Loudly. The Vakutan chef’s grin widens.
I hate how charming that grin is.
“Just a meal,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
He gestures toward a booth in the far corner. “That one’s the driest. I’ll bring something hot.”
The seat is too large, too curved, too… cozy. It’s warm. There’s a clean towel folded beside a strange plant centerpiece shaped like a claw. I sit, unwrap the towel, and press it to my hair.
The chef returns, a bowl in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.
“For the chill,” he says, setting them down. “Root tea. Safe. Mostly.”
I eye it suspiciously.
He chuckles and turns back to the kitchen.
The tea smells like oranges and smoke. The bowl is filled with seared meat, thin curling noodles, and something glowing red that might be pickled. I take a bite, expecting bland or weird or worse.
It’s incredible.
It’s spicy and rich and laced with citrus. The broth dances across my tongue like it’s got its own heartbeat. The meat is smoky, tender, and marinated in something addictive. I eat. Then I eat faster.
Across the open kitchen line, the chef watches me with amused curiosity. We lock eyes.
