Pretty hilarious how every single company and application is switching to AI-generated content for every goddamn thing whether I like it or not, yet I'm the one who needs to sign in, complete the captcha, and choose which of these is a motorcycle to make sure I'm "not a bot"
So with trump issuing pardons to so many violent criminals (January Sixers), is he just creating his schutzstaffel? Cause that's what it feels like. And if it looks like a goose, and steps like a goose, pretty sure it's a nazi.
In Chapter Two, Milo finds his client, not with a gun, but with a blade.
Welcome to The Predition. The kitchen is hot, the blood runs clean, and the line between performance and violence is paper-thin.
The car slowed as it turned into the dusk zone, its wheels traveled over the slick concrete. Milo didn’t look up right away, even as the light in the car faded out as they crossed the invisible border that was able to control the zone's atmosphere.
The light never changed here. It was always twilight. Always the same low hanging bruised gold pooling across the windows and skin. A pocket of frozen time, a pocket of sin inside the green zone where people lived out their desires through MoM’s loopholes and an obscene amount of money. The dashboard ahead of him displayed his coordinates, the objective, the Ministry clearance, it was all green. No error’s, no anomalies.
Still, his skin pricked with unease, the air felt heavy even in the car.
Through the tinted window, he caught the outline of the building the car had been driving him to.
It was large, larger than any restaurant had any business being. It had seven stories total, the outside decorated each story differently. The first one seemed to be the basic style of the district, greys and whites supported by columns.
The second story broke that illusion entirely, lined in flickering neon and brass piping, with vents that spilled the scent of roasted meat into the street. A marquee buzzed with menu items in half-lit letters, and the windows glowed orange-red like an oven set to broil.
The third gleamed like a vault, sheer panels of brushed gold, windows smoked so dark they reflected the street like mirrors. The building seemed to stare back, counting your steps.
The fourth floor was smooth black glass and red glow, veiled by velvet curtains that shifted in the windless air. Stone carvings of entangled figures held up the ledges, their mouths parted in soundless sighs.
The fifth looked like it couldn’t decide what it was. It shimmered, warped, a glitch in architecture. Its facade mimicked the buildings around it, changed depending on the angle of approach. It was always taller, sleeker, shinier than the one beside it.
The sixth was jagged obsidian, black metal ribs jutting out like broken bones. Red cracks throbbed across the surface, pulsing in rhythm with some deep, impossible bass. One of the windows was shattered and left that way, a warning rather than a flaw.
And the seventh, the top, was a cathedral in gold and ivory. Towering pillars. Arched stained-glass windows. A sculpted figure atop the roof held a plate aloft like an offering, or a challenge. From the ground, it looked almost like a throne.
The car slowed to a stop, a small chime that echoed the small space alerted the door had been unlocked. This was his destination. The Perdition. His client's restaurant. Each level reflected a sin, some gauche choice that was likely picked to make Adam sound smarter than he seemed. A tortured artist.
He stepped out of the car, throwing his bag over his shoulder as he did. The heavy weight on his back calmed him in the moment as a vague sense of unease coiled in his stomach.
Milo tapped his finger against the strap of the bag. Gun, gun, knife, knife. He had everything he needed. He was prepared. He was strapped. This building would not make him feel uneasy.
Beneath his feet a bright light lead him to the front of the building, guiding him like he may get lost. Or that he would get cold feet and run.
Milo didn’t run.
He adjusted the grip on his bag and followed the glowing light into the lobby of the restaurant.
The vast space bathed in muted blues and greys, where heavy velvet drapes muffled all sound like a whispered invitation to rest. Plush, deep-set chairs sagged under the weight of forgotten conversations, and slow-moving fans stirred thick, scented air heavy with musk and aged wood. The lighting was dim, soft, almost reluctant to reveal itself, casting long shadows that pooled like spilled wine on the polished floor. Comforting jazz spilled from invisible speakers, almost taking the attention away from the peeling grey paint. Yet none of it felt out of place.
A woman at the front desk to his left wore a mask of porcelain and gold, her voice a whisper amplified by another hidden speaker. “Hunter Milo Gryn.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes.”
She didn’t say anything else, but tilted her head. From behind her, an elevator opened up like a yawning mouth. “Scan and ascend to the assigned sin.”
The elevator slid open with a smooth, polished whisper. The air shifted immediately, warmer, thicker, saturated with the sharp tang of expensive cologne and something metallic, like fresh coins stacked too high.
The Greed floor was a cathedral of excess. Gleaming marble tiles stretched beneath Milo’s feet, so polished they reflected the high, mirrored ceiling above. Walls were lacquered in deep emerald and gold, embossed with twisting vines of stylized coins and jewels that seemed to crawl and glint in the low light.
Massive glass cases displayed rare delicacies, dishes almost too beautiful to eat, glistening with edible gold flakes and crystalline sugar. Candelabras dripped with sapphires and rubies, casting fractured light that made the room feel like a treasury instead of a dining hall.
In the center of the room, seated at a massive obsidian table carved like a throne, was Adam.
He wore black silk tailored so tightly it seemed painted onto his lithe frame. His eyes, piercing green, locked on Milo the moment the doors opened, flickering with a quiet, unnerving amusement.
A faint curl tugged at the corner of Adam’s lips as he rose smoothly, the scent of citrus and smoke rolling off him like a slow, dangerous wave.
“You came,” Adam said, voice soft but sharp as broken glass.
Milo adjusted the grip on his bag as he felt Adam’s stare burn through his clothes. It was like the chef could see each of the weapons strapped to Milo’s body.
His fingers tapped the strap of his bag four times before he responded. “I was contracted. Orders are orders.”
Adam’s smile deepened, but warmth was nowhere to be found. “Of course. The Company always sends its best hunters.”
“Escort only. Ministry protocol prohibits hostile engagement without filed permission.”
Adam didn’t argue. He merely tilted his head slightly as if amused by the idea of protocol. He probably was. Adam walked like a man who didn’t take orders from anybody. Someone that not only commanded the kitchen but every room he was in.
“Then there’s no need for hostility!” Adam grinned, already turning away. “Come. We’ll talk in the kitchen. Customers will be filling in soon and they don’t need to know our business.”
Milo hesitated only a second before following. The Greed Room stretched deeper than he expected, narrowing into a corridor lined with wine bottles and low, flickering sconces. Somewhere behind the walls, music pulsed like a heartbeat through velvet.
At the end of the hall, a door opened with a sigh of pressurized air. Cool mist rolled over his boots.
The kitchen wasn’t like any he had seen, not that he had seen much outside of his own or the ones in the MoM’s rezzed barracks. It was too clean. Too curated. Gold edged counters, dark green stone electric stone tops. Copper pans, far outdated compared to the rest of the kitchen, hung like trophies above a marble island that glistened with condensation. Steam hissed gently from a small sous-vide in the corner. Fresh herbs floated in glass cylinders along the wall, their roots glowing softly in the nutrient water.
Milo wasn’t focused on the decor. He looked at the knives.
Lined in perfect rows. Bone handled. Razor thin. Each one had a specific notch in the blade, a shape he knew without knowing. His feet stopped before he reached them, but his hand curled around the handle of his bag like it itched to reach for them.
Adam leaned against the far counter, rolling up his sleeves with slow deliberate grace and reached for a chef's coat. “You remember the mission parameters?”
“I read the file.” Milo responded stiffly. He stood in the opening of the kitchen with narrowed eyes, no longer focused on the appearance, but more the exits. The lack of people. “Where is everyone?”
“Gone,” Adam said as he washed his hands, looking up at Milo and smiling faintly. “I reserved this kitchen to go over your expectations.”
He turned and pulled a drawer open, it wasn’t a weapon he pulled out, but a cutting board. He set it on the counter top. “If you will be protecting me then you will need to look like more than just hired muscle.”
Milo’s jaw twitched. “You want me to play…kitchen staff?”
Adam hummed, his hands already arranging ingredients with clinical precision, a slight grin on his face as he did. “Let’s call it immersive cover. The Predition is an intimate space. Everyone who enters is either predator or prey. Nobody trusts an outsider with a gun. But a man with a knife?” The grin grew into a full smile that Milo decided suited the curves of Adam’s face.
“That’s art.” Adam continued.
Milo didn’t move from the threshold. He watch with bated breath as Adam reached into a chilled drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a sealed vacuum bag. The meat inside was pale, nearly translucent with red like marbled glass. It wasn’t the meat of any animal. His stomach clenched at the sight of it and his teeth ached with need, remembering the food he left at home.
He placed the bag gently on the cutting board. “Prep this.”
“I’m not-” Milo stopped. The words died on his tongue.
He was going to say, I’m not a cook. But the moment his eyes hit the bag again his fingers twitched. He knew he liked cooking at his home. He knew that a kitchen and his home were too different places. But he couldn't stop the coil of resignation and needed the longer he looked at the slab of meat. His secret need pulled at his chest. His stomach.
Adam was watching him, green eyes glassy in the overhead light. His pupils were blown out, like watching something he couldn't look away from. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with each shallow breath. He looked like an animal one second away from growing feral. Milo was sure he looked the same.
Adam said nothing, only placed a long, thin, boning knife on the counter besides the bag and stepped away.
He let the bag of clothes slip down his shoulder and fall to the ground. Milo approached slowly, his hand reached out, not for the bag, but for the knife. He picked it up. Tested the balance. Adjusted his grip automatically.
The steel was familiar, yet so unlike the ones he had bought for his apartment or the ones strapped to his person. It didn’t feel like a weapon. It felt like a tool. His fingers found a rhythm. Pinky curled for stability. Pressure on the thumb. He slit the vacuum seal in one precise line and let the plastic sigh open.
The scent that hit him was slightly different to the neck he had marinated not an hour early. Not putrid, not even raw, but ripe. Like it had been waiting for him.
He started cutting.
Thin slices, rhythmic. Each motion smooth, deliberate. The pieces laid out slightly askew on the marble. He placed them there like he had done it a hundred times before. He glanced up on instinct, like he knew that Adam wanted to say anything.
He didn’t. He watched with rapt attention to Milo’s every movement and twitch.
“See?” Adam’s voice was a low murmur, he circled behind Milo. “A natural.”
“I… just started cooking.” Milo’s voice came out tighter than he meant. His hand clenched harder around the bone handle. “It’s recent.”
“Sure it is,” Adam said softly. “But your hands remember.”
Milo froze.
That line, your hands remember, punched the air from his lungs. His pulse jumped in his neck.
“Stop talking,” he said, sharper now. “You don’t know me.”
Adam only smiled. “Don’t I?”
He moved again. The hiss of oil in a pan bloomed through the room. Butter, garlic, something sweet and metallic underneath. Milo didn’t want to smell it. He didn’t want to want it.
Adam plated it with reverent grace, like offering up a ritual. He set the dish in front of Milo like it was meant to tempt gods.
“Try it,” he said.
“No.”
“You need to eat, don’t you?” Adam said, tone light. Too light. “The Ministry doesn’t give you much. Synth scraps. You’ve been burning through fuel faster than they can patch you. You’ve been feeling it. The shakes. The heat under your skin.”
“I don’t—”
“Eat in front of people?” Adam finished for him, voice lowering. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Milo’s stomach spasmed. He could smell the meat, more than that. It smelled like something older than memory. Like safety. Like a home that had burned.
His hand hovered.
“You’re not MoM,” he said, voice low. “You shouldn’t know what I need. You shouldn’t know anything about me.”
Adam folded his arms across his chest. “And yet.”
Milo looked up. Hard.
“You said this was a mission debrief,” he said. “You said we were going to talk about the parameters.”
“We will,” Adam said. “But this is more urgent.”
“What is this, then?” Milo demanded. “Training? Conditioning?”
Adam’s expression was unreadable. “Survival.”
Milo stared at the plate, fingers trembling. Every part of him ached.
Adam leaned in. “If you don’t eat,” he whispered, “you’ll start to rot. I’ve seen it. You’ll slow down. You’ll get violent. You’ll forget how to talk. Eventually, they’ll scrap you. The Ministry doesn’t fix what it doesn’t understand.”
TPWK is one of those songs that my great-grandchild will discover on an old phone of mine which they will find well into the apocalypse in my ramshackle house where they are taking refuge from whatever dystopian nightmare of a reality they’re living in, and it’ll be the only song on the phone for some reason, and they’ll also find headphones and they’ll blast that song as loud as they can on repeat while they dance around, boobytrapping the house so the pillagers don’t take what is left of their food and water when the night comes
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