[ March 16th, 2087 (Morning) | Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Morning light spilled through the café windows in slow, hesitant bands, brushing the counter in gold as if the day itself were afraid to move too quickly.
Steam curled up from freshly pulled espresso shots, drifting lazily through the air like unspoken thoughts. Glassware gleamed in soft reflections, and the world, for a fleeting moment, felt gentle.
Niero moved behind the counter on muscle memory alone—wipe, pour, turn, repeat. His hands worked with practiced precision while his mind wandered somewhere far quieter. The scent of coffee, sugar, and warm bread wrapped around him like a familiar blanket.
Ordinary.
Peaceful.
Fragile.
The bell above the door chimed.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Sophie and Daisy burst into the café in a blur of navy skirts and crooked ties, backpacks slung over their shoulders, hair still messy with sleep. They didn't greet him. They didn't hesitate.
They just grabbed him.
Two sudden embraces crashed into him from both sides—warm, reckless, and impossibly close. Sophie pressed her face against his back, while Daisy locked her arms around his waist from the front with shocking force.
"Emergency recharge!" Daisy announced with theatrical cheer.
"Brother love meter at critical low," Sophie added solemnly, nodding as if she were delivering a medical diagnosis.
Niero froze.
His thoughts short-circuited. His ears burned. Somewhere, a spoon slipped from his trembling hand and clinked against the counter.
"H-Hey—!" he tried to protest, but the words dissolved before they reached his mouth.
Acting on pure instinct, he grabbed two paper bags from beneath the counter and shoved them into their hands—too fast, too rough, like he needed the distance to breathe.
"Take these. Go. You'll be late."
Inside each bag rested a bento he had finished before dawn—Chinese-style egg fried rice, still faintly warm, arranged with meticulous care. On top sat tiny Taiwanese sausages, sliced into clumsy octopus shapes. One leg was uneven. Another was slightly burned.
He had noticed.
He always did.
The café noticed too.
Customers lifted their heads from their cups. Someone murmured a soft, collective "awww~," like a ripple of warmth spreading through the room. Smiles appeared, quiet and sincere. No phones were raised, yet the moment lingered in the air.
Niero clicked his tongue, cheeks burning.
"Yeah, yeah. Eat properly," he muttered, already turning away as if none of this mattered—
as if he hadn't just been ambushed by affection in the middle of an ordinary morning.
But his eyes betrayed him.
They lingered.
Just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
He watched them laugh, thank him, and run out into the morning—backpacks bouncing, voices fading into the street. The bell chimed again, closing the door behind them.
The café returned to its quiet rhythm.
Niero exhaled slowly, his hand stopping mid-wipe.
For a moment, the warmth they left behind felt heavier than the silence.
And for a moment longer—
he didn't move.
Once his sisters vanished beyond the café doors, the bell's chime lingered in the air—then faded, leaving behind a silence that felt too wide for such a small space.
The café was still alive. Customers talked. Cups clinked. Steam hissed from the espresso machine.
Yet to Niero, it felt as though something essential had been taken with them.
He slipped behind the counter, fingers brushing the smooth wood as if searching for something invisible. The warmth of the surface grounded him, but only barely.
He unfolded a newspaper.
The pages were loud.
A female teacher exposed and arrested, caught peeking into a boys' changing room in an all-boys school in Sector 05.
A conspiracy podcaster recently arrested for spreading "dangerous ideas."
A male movie star spiral into another scandal due to stress, drugs and assault.
Politicians screaming over budgets that would shape wars no one understood.
The words passed through his eyes—but never reached his heart.
The world beyond the café felt distant and grotesque, eve within the "divine" sanctuary of this Mega Ark-City, like static clawing at a fragile glass window.
He lowered the paper.
Sunlight spilled across the countertop in dull, wavering patterns. He stared at it, unblinking, until his thoughts drifted somewhere else—somewhere warmer, quieter.
His mother.
Aunt Alura.
They had left early that morning for something important. Adult matters. Things he wasn't meant to know.
He hoped they would return soon.
Not because the café needed them.
Not because the workload was too heavy.
But because he did.
Something heavy rested in his chest, pressing gently yet relentlessly against his ribs.
Yesterday's words echoed there.
Careless.
Sharp.
Unnecessary.
He remembered the brief tightening of her eyes.
The pause that shouldn't have existed.
The silence that followed.
It was a silence he had created.
Niero exhaled slowly, letting the café's sounds seep back into him. The murmurs of customers. The clatter of dishes. The mechanical breathing of the espresso machine.
Ordinary sounds.
Yet now, they felt like anchors—proof that the world kept moving, even when his heart stumbled.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
It hurt more than he wanted to admit.
"I'll say it properly this time," he whispered.
The words trembled, fragile yet sincere—less a sentence, more a vow.
=
Niero's fingers tightened around the newspaper, the thin pages trembling slightly beneath his grip.
"Vee," he whispered, voice barely rising above the café's gentle hum. "Tell me something."
A brief pause.
"Where is Agent Takeshi Armitage right now?"
He swallowed.
"And… what do you have on him?"
At that moment, Vuldyr answered to him telepathically. Her voice slipped into his mind—smooth, unhurried, almost indifferent.
> "At present, Agent Takeshi Armitage is not assigned to any active BDAAA operations. There are no warrants, alerts, or surveillance flags associated with him. In short—he is moving freely. His activity logs indicate a lifestyle that can be categorized as casual, recreational, and socially integrated."
Niero blinked.
Casual.
Recreational.
Socially integrated.
The words felt strangely out of place.
"…That's it?" he asked quietly.
> "If you require additional details, I can provide them."
"Do it."
Vuldyr's tone shifted—not sharper, not colder, but more… structured. As if she were switching from conversation to analysis while still retaining a faint trace of casualness.
> Name: Agent Takeshi Armitage.
> Classification: Rank-B, BDAAA Field Agent.
> Ethnicity: Japanese-European hybrid lineage.
> Citizenship: Bronze-tier, Bloom Dominion jurisdiction, M.A.C 01.
> Primary specialization: close-combat engagement, with exceptional proficiency in sword-based weapon systems."
Niero felt his jaw tighten.
> "His combat efficiency is significantly enhanced by the deployment of a M.A.R.S Suit—Muscle Augmentation & Reactive System. The suit amplifies his physical parameters to approximately five times that of an average human baseline."
"…Five times," Niero murmured.
> "Correct. In practical terms, he can be categorized as an individual with no superhuman feats like most of the human males yet capable of overwhelming most mid-tier hostile entities in direct confrontation. Files stated that he honed his swordamanship skills since before his joining the BDAAA, mostly likely his skills were forge out of guts and determination. Quite Impressive."
The café felt quieter than before.
Niero stared at the reflection of his own eyes in the marble counter, his expression stiff, thoughts spiraling.
Despite all that…
Armitage wasn't moving.
Not investigating.
Not reporting.
Not hunting.
Even after the Goblins.
Even after the Orc Orkoids.
Even after the undeniable trail that pointed back to him.
It didn't make sense.
And that was what unsettled him the most.
"…He knows," Niero muttered under his breath.
> "Probability assessment indicates a high likelihood that Agent Armitage has already connected the relevant incidents to you," Vuldyr replied lightly, almost as if discussing the weather.
> "However, there is no evidence of active pursuit behavior."
Niero's fingers slowly loosened from the newspaper.
If Armitage had been chasing him, it would have been easier to understand.
But this?
This felt deliberate.
Calculated.
Like someone standing still on a battlefield—not because they were weak, but because they were waiting for the right moment to strike.
A faint chill slid down his spine.
"…So he's just pretending nothing happened?"
> "From an observational standpoint," Vuldyr answered, her tone almost amused,
> "yes."
Niero exhaled slowly.
That was the worst part.
If Armitage had attacked him openly, it would have been war.
But if he was smiling somewhere out there—living normally, acting carefree, while silently watching from afar—
Then this wasn't a hunt to him.
It was a game.
And Niero had no idea when the first move would even begin.
Niero lowered his voice to a murmur, careful, as if speaking too loudly might tilt the world off its axis.
"Vee… where is Agent Takeshi Armitage right now? And—has anything been filed on me?"
Vuldyr's reply came back with a calmness that felt almost… mocking.
According to her feed, Armitage was sprawled across Section 13's break room, one arm draped lazily over a worn couch, thumbs flicking at a mobile game as if the weight of the world simply did not exist. No alerts. No surveillance orders. No flags connecting him to Niero Ripley.
> "He is currently unengaged with any active operations," Vuldyr reported smoothly.
> "No anomalies detected in his logs. Behavior appears… routine. Casual. Unremarkable."
And for Niero himself?
> "Official records regarding Niero Ripley are clean. No reports filed. No follow-ups. Section 13's database shows no indication of concern."
Niero's stomach twisted. Of course there's nothing. That's the worst part.
It wasn't the fear of being hunted. Not the cold flash of alarms or the creeping weight of reports tagging him as a target.
It was this: the absolute, effortless indifference.
Armitage could exist in plain sight—untethered, unbothered, entirely unconcerned. That calm, that lack of scrutiny, gnawed at him far worse than any open threat ever could. It was a predator wearing a smile, waiting, and pretending the world had not noticed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly, trying to unclench his chest. The dread was still there—a quiet, pressing weight—but at least Vee had more to offer.
Without ceremony, Vee shifted topics, her tone changing so naturally that it almost felt human.
> "By the way, I have already processed several low-tier items obtained from the [Gacha Fortuna] boon.
> All eligible materials have been dismantled and recycled into raw Omnia Matter."
A faint shimmer of data unfolded in Niero's vision.
-
> Recovered Conversions:
> • Rusty Pocket Knife — → 5 units
> • Weathered Coin — → 5 units
> • Tin Whistle — → 5 units
> • Scrap Notebook — → 5 units
>
> Total Output: 20 units of Omnia Matter.
-
Cheap junk.
Things most people would toss away without a second thought.
Yet now, they had been transmuted into something tangible—something with value.
Niero let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. A faint edge of relief curled through his chest.
At least something in his life was converting cleanly.
At least some pieces were finally fitting together.
But the feeling didn't last long.
He stared at the total again.
20 units.
"…That's it?" he muttered.
Vee responded lightly.
> "From an efficiency standpoint, the conversion rate is within expected parameters."
Niero clicked his tongue quietly.
He already knew the answer before asking, but reality still felt irritating when confirmed. Twenty units of Omnia Matter made quite a dent in the Bloom Dominion's market value—nowhere near enough for the ten rolls he'd been aiming for on [Gacha Fortuna].
Not even close.
A faint frustration flickered behind his eyes.
So much effort… for this.
He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting upward.
Maybe he'd have to save it.
Wait.
Accumulate more.
Delay the gamble.
He couldn't afford it right now.
=
Niero flipped through the newspaper with one hand while the other moved across the counter in quiet precision—pouring coffee, sliding plates of pastries forward, refilling sugar jars and cream pitchers. Each motion flowed naturally, so familiar that it barely registered in his mind. His body worked on instinct while his senses lingered on the small details that made the morning feel real.
Most of the customers were women.
Office workers on short breaks and freelancers lingering over open laptops leaned close to one another, voices low but animated, trading stories about unbearable coworkers, unreasonable bosses, and lives that seemed to require caffeine just to remain functional. Their laughter mixed with the scent of roasted beans and warm bread, filling the café with a soft, restless energy.
From time to time, curiosity turned toward him.
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
The question came in many forms—some playful, some teasing, others unexpectedly serious, as if he might hold the answer to some invisible rule of adulthood. Smiles curved on lips that were far too perceptive.
Niero responded with practiced neutrality.
Half-smiles.
Vague answers.
Polite deflections that neither confirmed nor denied anything.
It was easier that way.
Less risk.
Less… entanglement.
Occasionally, male customers passed through the café—construction workers dusted with cement and sweat. A new project was underway somewhere in the district, something about a commercial complex or additional housing to relieve the city's population strain. Niero hadn't bothered to look deeper into it.
Regardless, they looked like men who carried the city on their backs.
They ordered their coffee and pastries quietly, offered brief nods or simple thanks, and disappeared back into the streets. Compared to the teasing glances and subtle scrutiny from the women, their presence felt almost peaceful—like a brief pause in the rhythm of the day.
Yet Niero couldn't help noticing something else.
Some of the women watched those men with eyes that lingered too long—slow, measuring glances that traced muscle, posture, and movement.
Like hunters evaluating prey.
The thought sent a faint chill down his spine.
He turned back to the newspaper, letting the voices blur into distant noise. Cups clinked. Plates slid across polished wood. Steam rose from porcelain mugs. Somewhere, the espresso machine exhaled with mechanical rhythm.
Another ordinary morning unfolded.
And Niero moved through it with quiet, practiced ease—anchored in routine, yet faintly aware of the subtle pulse of life flowing around him.
=
This was smooth sailing in the everyday slice-of-life in the cafe.
Or so he though...
A customer, a problematic kind.
Dressed in a pristine blazer and oversized sunglasses, she tilted her chin upward with theatrical disdain, lips pursed as though the rustic café were a flaw in reality itself, her voice slicing through the warm chatter like a blade of polished glass.
He was pretty sure he saw her designer handbag was shaking and it has a faint smell of a dog with shampoo scent.
Niero forced a smile as the woman at the counter rattled off her order.
Each word landed like a hammer blow.
Gluten-free. Low sugar. Vegan-sourced. Ethically milled flour. No palm oil. No artificial sweeteners.
By the time she finished, his head was spinning.
He nodded politely, fingers tightening around the order pad, chest slowly constricting with every added qualifier. He opened his mouth, ready to explain—carefully, gently—that this was a family-owned café, not some high-end experimental laboratory of dietary virtue—
"I want to speak to the manager."
The words sliced through him before he could finish.
He inhaled, lips parting to respond—
—and then, as if summoned by fate itself, Aunt Alura appeared.
"Never fear!" she announced, stepping through the door with dramatic timing, sunglasses perched perfectly on her nose, groceries balanced in one arm like props on a stage. Her presence alone bent the atmosphere, a strange mixture of elegance and disaster wrapped in human form.
"Your Ultra-Amazing Aunty Alura is here!"
She took in the scene with a single glance.
Then she smiled.
"Honey. Sweetie. We've got pastries," she said, her voice syrupy enough to rot teeth, yet edged with something sharp enough to cut steel.
A brief pause.
"Either you eat 'em," she continued lightly,
"or you can fuck off somewhere that actually cares."
The world stopped.
Steam froze midair.
Spoons hovered above cups.
Even the espresso machine seemed to hesitate.
The woman at the counter stiffened, as if struck by an invisible blow. Her face flushed crimson. Words tumbled out—unprofessional, unacceptable, never coming back—before she stormed out, heels striking the floor like gunshots, pride vibrating around her like static.
Alura watched her retreat for a moment.
Then she shrugged, setting the groceries down with a faint clatter.
"What?" she said casually.
"Customer service."
Niero blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Part of him wanted to bury his face in the counter. Another part wanted to laugh until his lungs burned. Instead, he let out a slow breath that carried equal parts amusement and exhaustion.
He turned back to the counter.
Wiped it down.
Slid a plate of pastries toward a waiting customer.
Refilled a steaming cup of latte.
As if nothing had happened.
Ordinary mornings. He thought wryly.
Sunlight slanted through the café windows, catching on flour-dusted croissants, swirling milk in coffee, and the quiet rhythm of familiar customers moving through their routines.
Alura set the grocery bags down on the counter, the plastic handles stretching as she loosened her grip. One by one, she began unloading them, the contents clattering softly against the polished wood.
Peanut butter jars thumped first.
Then came a stack of Samurai Star–branded pork miso cup noodles, with their heating module and their neon labels screaming defiance at anyone who dared question their sodium levels.
"Look at these, Niero! Only three bucks a pop!" Alura announced, grinning like she'd just uncovered buried treasure.
"Aunty Xixi's market is insane today. You wouldn't believe the chaos—people elbowing each other over fresh shrimp, kids running around like tiny tornadoes…" She waved her hand dramatically, nearly knocking over a jar of peanut butter. "And me? I was like a stingy Chinese housewife in a wet street market! Bargaining, wheeling, dealing—"
Niero raised an eyebrow as he stacked the noodles neatly.
"For a gambler like you," he said dryly, "you're… alarmingly good at bullying discounts. I just hope the people you negotiated with don't blacklist all of us by now."
Alura gasped theatrically, clutching her necklace as if pearls actually existed there.
"Blacklist? Honey, I don't bully people—I cultivate relationships." She wagged a finger at him. "I do favors, I trade favors for favors. It's practically Faustian! A little back-and-forth, a little wink, and suddenly—bam! Discounts everywhere."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial grin.
"They think they're winning. But really… it's all part of the art."
Next came a six-pack of tall Nova-Cola cans, vanilla flavored caramel soda with self-refrigerant modules—the good kind, rare enough to make Alura sigh in triumph—followed by a six-pack of Aunt Kimmy's ButterBrew, a low-alcohol butter beer that smelled faintly of childhood nostalgia and mildly bad decisions.
Frozen sausages landed with a dull thud. Then a couple cans of beer, which she nudged toward him with exaggerated secrecy.
"For me, of course. What? Auntie's gotta survive the chaos too."
Ice cream tubs followed, carefully arranged like offerings to some invisible household deity. Then came the quiet necessities that stitched normalcy back into life: eggs, milk, bread, a bag of crisp apples.
Niero watched her methodical chaos, the small mountain of groceries growing on the counter, and felt something in his chest loosen—just slightly.
For all the danger lurking outside, all the secrets pressing down on him like stubborn fog, this was still home.
"You really went all out," he murmured, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.
Alura twirled a beer can on her palm, eyes sparkling.
"Of course! Auntie never leaves anyone wanting, sweetheart. And besides, I might've made a few trades that'll come back in our favor… or bite me in the ass later." She shrugged lightly. "But hey, life's more fun when it's a little risky, right?"
Niero chuckled, shaking his head.
"You never change."
"And neither should you, Niero," she said, stacking the last bag with a flourish. "If the world's going to throw chaos at us, we might as well drink ButterBrew and eat miso noodles while we deal with it, like a cool riders we are."
He let the clatter of jars, the distant chatter of the café, and Alura's gleeful storytelling fill the room.
Alura popped the tab on one of the beer cans with a satisfied psshk, the hiss echoing softly across the café. She lifted it toward her lips, eyes sparkling, ready to savor the tiny victory of a long day's market haul—only for Niero to snatch it mid-motion.
"Don't," he said flatly, voice calm but firm. "You're not supposed to drink in front of customers. Kitchen. That's what Mom always said."
Alura froze for a moment, brow arched, then let out a full, belly-deep laugh that made the nearby plates rattle slightly.
"Wow," she said between chuckles, "listen to you. Absolute killjoy—just like your mom."
The words landed with an unexpected weight. Niero's grip on the can tightened, knuckles whitening slightly. He remembered last night—voices rising, tempered by exhaustion and frustration, doors almost slammed, harsh words left unsaid. He had carried them in his chest, wrapped around the quiet ache of things he should have expressed. Maybe now… maybe now was the right time to speak. Apologize. Clear the air.
Alura, as if sensing the shift in him, reached out and gently nudged his shoulder with a warm, careless insistence.
"Hey. Don't overthink it, okay? You've been carrying enough for one day."
Her eyes softened, and Niero blinked against the sting of his own reflection in them. She wasn't scolding—she was just… grounding him. Reminding him that some weight could wait, that some moments could breathe.
She took the beer back and sauntered toward the kitchen, still humming under her breath.
"Your mom's out for a bit anyway—restocking pastries, deliveries, the usual. Business stuff."
Niero nodded, exhaling slowly, trying to release the tight coil of guilt and worry in his chest. The beer hissed softly again as Alura set it down, the sound strangely comforting in its mundanity.
Later, he told himself, a silent promise. I'll talk to her later.
For now, he let the small domestic rhythm settle over him—the hum of the espresso machine, the clatter of dishes, Alura's easy chatter from the kitchen. It was enough to remind him that even in the swirl of obligations, tension, and unspoken words, there were pockets of quiet that made life bearable.
Warmth he could hold onto, if only for a moment.
Niero hesitated.
The words twisted in his throat like tangled wire, scraping on the way out.
"Aunt Alura… what do you really think about me becoming a Marauder?"
He didn't soften it. Didn't hide behind jokes.
He spoke of the fog.
Of monsters and anomalies that could swallow people whole.
Of blood spilled for relics and loot that might not even be worth the price.
Every sentence carried the weight of sleepless nights and quiet fear—the kind that lingered long after the world went dark.
Alura didn't answer right away.
Hiss.
The faint bubbling sound of her beer still heard by both of them.
She took a slow, deliberate sip, as if buying time. Then she set the can down with a dull thunk and stared at the counter like it had personally offended her.
"Personally?" she said at last, her voice low and unfiltered.
"I'm with your mom."
Niero's chest tightened.
"It's a stupid idea," she went on, not bothering to sugarcoat it. "A suicidal one." Her eyes flicked toward him—sharp, sideways, impossible to misunderstand. "If someone wants to dive into the fog for thrills and treasure, let it be some adrenaline-junkie idiots or other soldiers. Not my nephews."
The words hit harder than any gentle scolding ever could.
Harsh.
Honest.
Protective in the ugliest, most sincere way.
Then she sighed.
This time, it was quieter.
"But…"
Alura leaned closer, lowering her voice like a conspirator sharing a dangerous secret.
"I'm also a gambler."
She looked at him differently now.
Not as family.
As odds.
She measured his posture, the tension in his shoulders, the stubborn light in his eyes—the kind that didn't fade easily. To her, they weren't emotions.
They were probabilities.
"And I don't bet on a losing hand," she said.
That crooked grin appeared, small but unsettling.
"You've got something," she added, softer now. "I don't know what it is yet. But I've seen enough to know you wouldn't die easily out there."
She shrugged, a casual gesture that somehow carried both warmth and warning.
"Doesn't mean I want you to do it. Just means…"
her gaze lingered on him,
"…if you did, I wouldn't bet against you."
Niero swallowed.
His throat felt dry.
His heart pounded—not with fear, not with excitement, but with the heavy shock of being seen. Truly seen. Not as a kid, not as a burden, not as someone to protect blindly.
But as someone with weight.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
He wanted to argue.
To deny it.
To say it wasn't fair to place stakes on him like that.
But he didn't.
He only nodded.
And as the words settled around him—sharp, warm, impossible to forget—something inside him steadied.
Niero let his heartbeat slow, each thump a little steadier than the last, though the tension in his chest refused to fully unravel.
He glanced at Aunt Alura, her casual confidence and easy grin somehow grounding him even in the swirl of his own guilt.
"How… how do I fix things with Mom?" he asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
"How do I… smooth things over?"
Alura leaned back, cracking her knuckles with a faint, playful grin. But when her eyes met his, there was nothing playful—only warmth and understanding.
"Kid," she said, voice soft but firm, "you've gotta be true to your own heart. That's the only way she'll ever see you for who you really are."
Niero swallowed.
Her words were simple, almost obvious—but the weight behind them made his chest ache.
Truth—he hadn't realized how much he'd been holding back, how many walls he'd built between himself and her.
Alura gave him space, letting him breathe, the quiet of the café pressing in around them: the hiss of the espresso machine, the soft clink of cups, the distant murmur of conversation.
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added:
"But… maybe find a middle ground. A compromise between what you want and what she wants. Show her you're thinking about her too—she'll respect that more than you think."
Niero nodded slowly, letting the advice settle in like the first calm after a storm. It wouldn't be easy—he knew that—but maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward without losing himself. Without letting fear or pride crush the fragile balance of family.
"Thanks, Aunty," he murmured, voice quieter but steadier.
"I… I'll try."
She waved him off with a casual flick of her hand, returning to arranging the groceries with her usual flair.
"Just don't overthink it, kid. And don't let the fog or monsters—or whatever else the world throws at you—stop you from being a halfway decent son. That's enough for starters."
Niero let out a small, almost imperceptible laugh, a sound carrying more relief than humor.
For the first time in a long while, the tension eased, replaced by something softer—hope.
Maybe he couldn't fix everything at once.
But for the first time in a long while, he felt like he knew how to start.
And for now, that was enough.
Niero exhaled slowly, telling himself his heartbeat could finally settle. Maybe, just maybe, he could get a moment of calm—until the same picky customer waltzed back into the café.
A long, defeated sigh escaped both him and Alura almost in unison.
The woman's eyes gleamed with exacting malice, sharp as a hawk spotting prey.
"I'd like a triple-shot, half-caf, extra-hot, oat-milk latte," she began, counting on her fingers as if reciting a sacred incantation.
"With precisely three pumps of vanilla syrup, stirred counterclockwise, served in a cup that isn't too big or too small, with the foam exactly this high"—she gestured, measuring the air with surgical precision—"and make sure it's 165 degrees. Oh, and don't you dare put the cup on a napkin—it ruins the vibe. And if it's wrong, I'll be speaking to your manager."
Niero's grip on the espresso pitcher tightened.
Jaw locked.
His right eye twitched involuntarily.
Breath shallow. Muscles coiled like springs.
Please… don't make me explode today…
Before he could respond, Alura's voice cut through the tension like a serrated blade.
"Again," she scoffed, lifting a perfectly arched brow.
"We are not that kind of café. And didn't you say you'd never come back here a few minutes ago?"
The woman blinked, mouth opening, closing, blinking again—clearly offended.
Niero felt a flicker of relief ripple through him.
Alura leaned on the counter, one hand on her hip, eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of mischief and authority.
"Listen, sugar," she said, voice smooth but sharp."Life's too short for latte perfectionism. We have homemade pastries, tea, coffee, sandwiches, pasta… If that's too much for you, maybe you should stick to vending machines."
Niero exhaled again, a little more freely this time, letting the tension in his shoulders uncoil.
He glanced at Alura, and for a brief moment, the ridiculousness of the situation—the absurd, impossible latte order—felt almost… comforting.
She had his back.
Always had.
=
[ March 16th, 2087 (Afternoon) | Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
It was early afternoon, around 12:55 p.m., and the café hummed with a gentle, familiar rhythm—even if the crowd was thinner than usual. Sunlight slanted through the windows, catching on the steam rising from coffee cups and the golden crusts of freshly baked bread.
Niero and Alura moved through with practiced efficiency—sandwiches plated, pasta twirling in simmering sauce, iced tea poured in precise spirals. The scent of yeast and roasted coffee beans mingled, grounding him in a rare moment of ordinary peace.
The calm didn't last.
Two of Mom's friends arrived, each trailing a pair of prepubescent daughters, ostensibly "catching up" like old high school friends.
The girls, however, treated the café like an obstacle course. They darted between tables, squealing with boundless energy, giggling at their own mischief, and nearly colliding with a towering stack of pastries.
Alura's eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk. A grin tugged at her lips.
"Niero," she called, voice both amused and commanding, "handle those little rascals."
Niero groaned inwardly, shoulders slumping in mock despair. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed the stack of coloring books Mom had purchased weeks ago. *Better than glued to screens all day*, she had promised—and now he silently thanked her foresight.
A shriek pierced the air as one of the girls tripped on a loose shoe, scraping her knee against the tile. She teetered on the verge of tears, and her mother was about to intervene.
Niero dropped to one knee beside her, calm and deliberate. He slipped her shoe back on with gentle hands, then dabbed at the scrape with a colorful bandage pulled from his pink apron, careful not to hurt her further.
"There," he said softly, handing each girl a coloring book. "Please behave and color quietly, without disturbing the other customers."
He gave a forced yet soft smile to those two little girls.
The girls blushed, murmuring small apologies before scampering back to their mothers' table, whispering under their breath like tiny, relieved conspirators.
Niero straightened, brushing his hands on a dish towel, and allowed himself a faint, exasperated smile.
It was a small victory, almost invisible against the swirl of the day—but those moments reminded him of something important: even in the midst of little chaos, a steady hand could make a difference. A calm presence, even fleeting, could ripple outwards.
Alura, leaning against the counter with an approving smirk, gave a playful nod.
"See? Easy. You've got the kid-whisperer thing down… for now."
Niero shook his head, lips tugging into a reluctant grin.
"Don't tempt fate."
She laughed, bright and infectious, and for a heartbeat, the café felt impossibly warm and **ordinary**.
While Niero carefully served the two mothers their drinks and pastries, the familiar chime of the café door rang again, crisp and welcoming. He looked up, expecting another customer—or chaos—but froze for a moment when he saw who it was.
Family.
Sophie and Daisy stepped inside, shoulders slumped, faces pale and drained—the unmistakable exhaustion of returning to school after festival days, already buried under a mountain of homework. They barely spared Niero more than a tired, almost automatic nod before muttering greetings too soft to carry. Their backpacks bumped against the steps as they trudged upstairs like small boats weighed down by anchors.
Mom, on the other hand, slipped seamlessly into her familiar rhythm. Her expression softened into an easy, practiced smile as she greeted the two mothers at a nearby table. Laughter followed—easy, natural, rising over the low hum of the café.
To Niero, they were just another pair of customers, sipping tea and chatting softly. To Mom, though, they were old friends—fellow mothers who spoke the language of fatigue, shared the unspoken bond of worry, and bore the quiet pride of raising children in a city that never stopped moving. He could see it in the tilt of her head, the soft cadence of her voice, the subtle gestures that remembered shared histories.
As he poured tea, set down plates with careful precision, and arranged pastries just so, fragments of their conversation drifted through the warm air.
"Can you believe the PTA meeting lasted three hours?" one murmured, eyes rolling behind her glasses.
"I know! And don't get me started on the new math homework… I swear it's designed to make us question our life choices," the other replied, smirking.
Niero caught a snippet of Mom's soft chuckle, the gentle teasing in her voice, and a small, private warmth settled in his chest.
The café felt different now—not noisy, not bustling—but layered with the quiet richness of lives moving forward, step by tired step. Each laugh, sigh, and exchanged glance added depth, turning the space into something almost alive.
He paused, letting the steam from a teacup curl up to his nose, tasting faintly of chamomile and reassurance.
Maybe it wasn't grand or dramatic, this warmth.
Maybe it was just ordinary life—the kind you almost miss while staring at the darker things pressing in from the outside.
As soon as the cakes and tea were served, Niero moved on instinct. He pulled out slices of bread, spreading tomato pasta sauce with precise, practiced motions. Cheese followed, shredded just right, and neatly cut Taiwanese sausages—his signature pizza toast, a small ritual reserved for Sophie and Daisy after long school days. The tray slid into the oven, carrying with it a faint hope that food could soothe exhaustion, if only a little.
By the time the oven door closed, the two mothers had already gathered their daughters and were bidding their goodbyes. The bell above the café door chimed, and just like that, the ambient chatter thinned, leaving a soft hush over the room.
Mom stepped behind the counter and began brewing herself an espresso, letting the rich, nutty aroma fill the space. For the first time all afternoon, she allowed herself a moment of quiet.
Alura excused herself upstairs to check on the girls, leaving Niero alone with Mom.
An awkward silence settled between them—not born of anger, but of words left tangled and unsaid. The low hum of the oven, the rhythmic hiss of the coffee machine, soft jazz drifting lazily from the speakers, and the gentle jingle of Pumpkin's collar as the fat orange tabby padded across the floor filled the spaces where neither dared to speak.
"Mom, I-"
"Baby. I-"
Niero opened his mouth, then closed it again. Mom did the same. He tried once more; she interrupted him. They repeated this careful dance, voices overlapping in hesitant rhythm, each attempting to bridge the distance without stepping on the other's heart.
Finally, Mom exhaled, soft and deliberate, and gestured for him to speak first.
Niero lowered his gaze, fingers curling against the edge of the counter as if the wood could anchor his trembling confidence.
"I… I'm sorry," he began, voice low but earnest.
"For last night. For shouting, for… losing my temper. I didn't mean to…"
The words stumbled out, halting at first, then gaining weight, carrying all the pressure of unsaid frustrations.
"I just... don't like feeling.. weak, Mom. Helpless, sometimes. In a world where strength, authority, and miracles… they belong to women so often, and I… I just—" He drew in a shaky breath. "I just want to matter. Matter to you. To the family. I want to grow stronger. Not for glory, not for praise, but to help. To protect… to protect our family. I love all of you. More than anything."
Her eyes shimmered, catching the soft afternoon light. Mom's hands rested on the counter, trembling just slightly as she leaned closer. Her voice wavered, thick with emotion.
"Niero... my Baby Badger… I'm sorry too," she said, almost breaking.
"I… I shouldn't have yelled. Shouldn't have shut you down so harshly. My fear… it spoke louder than my trust. I love you. All of you. I can't bear the thought of losing you to the world outside these walls."
Her gaze softened, eyes glistening.
"Mega Ark-City 01 isn't just concrete and steel to me—it's our home, our sanctuary. The world beyond? I never wanted you to face it alone. I… I just wanted to keep you safe."
Niero's chest tightened as her words sank in, the weight of her love pressing against the knots in his own heart. He reached out, almost instinctively, and their hands brushed across the counter.
It was a small gesture, but it carried everything: apology, forgiveness, understanding, and the unspoken promise of protection and trust between them.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The oven hummed, the espresso machine hissed, and soft jazz floated lazily around them.
In that ordinary afternoon, filled with the smell of bread and coffee, the little pangs of fear and frustration melted into something warmer—they had each other.
Mom reached across the counter, her hands warm as they wrapped around Niero's. The gesture was grounding, a tether in the swirl of nerves and unspoken words. Her grip carried something heavier than affection—it carried trust, expectation, and a subtle tremor of worry.
"I've… been thinking," she said softly, eyes fixed on his.
"After three bottles of wine, a long, sleepless conversation with Alura, and quietly pulling a few strings in the Bloom Dominion's military channels, I've made a decision." Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the effort it had taken to reconcile fear and pride.
"Tonight… I want to talk to you properly about this Marauder business. Not to scold you, Niero. I want to hear you. Really hear you. And to see if your resolve… matches the words you said just now."
For a heartbeat, Niero braced himself for rejection, for the familiar tightening in his chest that always accompanied Mom's disapproval. But when he met her eyes, he found none of that—only patience, trust, and a quiet command to wait.
"Hold your thoughts for now," she said softly.
"There will be time tonight. For everything."
He swallowed, nodding faintly, unsure if relief or apprehension came first. Before he could speak, a cheerful ding rang from the baking oven, slicing through the tension like sunlight through clouds. Both of them turned.
Mom blinked, and in an instant, her heavy, emotional expression melted into something lighter, brighter.
"Oh! Pizza toast!" she exclaimed, voice bubbling with enthusiasm. She moved to the oven, pulled out the tray, and inhaled deeply, the smell of melted cheese and sausages curling around her. Without hesitation, she grabbed a still-sizzling slice and bit into it.
Her eyes lit up, as if tasting a tiny miracle.
"You know," she said between bites, cheese stretching slightly with her words, "maybe we should add this to the café menu."
Niero blinked, momentarily speechless. The tension in his shoulders loosened. Mom—so often the pillar of authority, the storm of caution and love—was laughing, savoring a simple slice of comfort he had made. And in that tiny moment, the world felt less heavy, less overwhelming.
He allowed himself a small, unguarded smile.
"Maybe…" he murmured, "if you think it's good enough."
Mom gave him a wink, playful and warm, and gestured to the counter.
"You're on dish duty for the next tray," she teased, though her tone carried none of the usual severity—only shared warmth, trust, and the quiet, stubborn joy of family rituals.
Niero chuckled softly, shaking his head. The conversation about Marauders would wait for tonight. For now, the ordinary, comforting rhythm of the café—the oven, the smells, the laughter—was enough to fill the spaces where fear and tension had been.
And for a fleeting, precious moment, he could simply breathe.
=
[ March 16th, 2087 (Early Evening) | Upper Floor (Sophie's Bedroom) > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Moments later, as the early evening settled like a soft sigh over the city, the café below quieted into a gentle rhythm. Niero climbed the narrow staircase to the living quarters above, balancing a small tray with care—steaming pizza toast stacked like little victories and two glasses of ice lemon tea, their clinking a faint, comforting chime with every step.
"Brain food for defeating evil homework," he muttered under his breath, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Because clearly… this is a boss fight."
Sophie's room door stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. He paused, peeking inside. Both Sophie and Daisy were slumped over like warriors fallen in battle—Sophie at her desk, Daisy collapsed beside a low table. Pencils hovered mid-air, shoulders sagging, faces etched with exaggerated despair.
Niero's lips twitched, stifling a laugh. "Wow… you'd think you two were climbing Mount Olympus."
"Shut u—" Sophie started, but her protest dissolved into a groan as her forehead hit her notebook.
He knocked anyway, light, steady. "Break time."
The door burst open almost instantly.
Daisy's tired eyes sparkled like fireworks at the sight of the tray. "Big bro!" she chirped, bouncing despite her exhaustion. "You made pizza toast!"
"Of course I did," Niero replied, stepping inside. "I'm not a monster. Unlike your teachers."
From behind a fortress of papers, Sophie lifted her gaze. Her hair was messy, dark circles stubborn beneath her eyes, and the battlefield of her desk—scattered equations, half-solved problems, timelines, and reports—stared back at him.
Yet when she saw him, something shifted. Her expression softened. For a fleeting heartbeat, it was like light slicing through the fog.
"You're a lifesaver," she whispered, voice small but certain.
Niero handed Daisy a slice first. She devoured it without hesitation, eyes wide. "Mmm—! Way better than suffering."
He passed Sophie a slice and one of the glasses of lemon tea. She took both, a tired but genuine smile brushing her lips as she sipped carefully, then leaned back in her chair, eyes closing for a moment.
"Our teachers are evil," Daisy said between bites, dead serious. "Only villains give kids this much homework."
Sophie nodded, a small, wry grin forming. "I'm pretty sure my chemistry teacher feeds on despair."
Niero laughed softly, a sound warmer than he expected, almost like a release. He leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed, watching them. Crumbs fell onto papers no one cared about.
Nothing mattered outside this room. Nothing mattered outside this moment.
"You know," he began, teasing, "back in my day—"
"Don't," Sophie cut him off flatly, though her lips twitched.
He grinned anyway.
"—we complained just as much."
Daisy squinted.
"So… did you survive?"
"Barely," he said, mock solemn. "Pizza toast carried me."
A quiet laugh slipped from Sophie, soft, genuine, and fleeting, like the gentle promise of relief. She took another bite, shoulders slowly uncoiling, the tension easing.
After setting the tray of pizza toast and ice lemon tea on the low table, Niero's gaze drifted to Sophie's desk—a battlefield of open textbooks, scribbled notes, and half-finished worksheets stacked like a paper fortress. He leaned in, scanning a few lines, and let out a soft chuckle.
"This is pretty easy," he said before thinking.
Sophie froze mid-gesture, then shot him a sideways glare, her lips curling into a tired, amused smile.
"Oh, of course it is," she said, her tone edged with dry humor. "Anything would be easy for the super-genius prodigy—you know, the one who graduated junior high at fourteen and spent an entire year doing absolutely nothing at fifteen."
Niero raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing lightly.
"Hey, I didn't choose the system. The system chose me."
Daisy, already halfway through her second slice, blinked between them, wide-eyed. "Wait—how does that even work?" she asked, curiosity shining. "How did you finish school so early, big bro?"
Niero's smile softened. Saying it aloud made the years feel closer, the memories sharper. It was a story he had carried silently for so long, a reminder that his path had always been… different.
As Sophie and Daisy happily munched their pizza toast, Niero leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling.
"It wasn't just because I was a super genius," he said quietly. "Back at McWeston All-Boys Junior High… I was officially labeled a super menace too."
Both girls paused mid-bite, curiosity flickering across their tired faces.
"I got into fights. A lot of them," he continued, voice casual but edges roughened with memory.
"Mostly with other boys—those wannabe gangsters like The Red Dragons, that buff-buffoon Boyce, that ganguro-looking-ass womanizer Kaito, and that bitchy Swedish twink-ass Egil. I beat them up for bullying… and because I' also a target myself. I never lost. I think I sent most of the "bad boys" into infirmary to the point other students are scared and ostracized me. I gave the faculty headaches they couldn't fix. Eventually, the academy… they got tired of dealing with me, the menace who might ruin their high school's image. So they came up with a 'solution': One brutal course, one brutal exam. Pass, you graduate early. Fail… you get kicked out. I got the first option. They kicked me out… politely. With a 'never come again' speech."
His smirk was there, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"It wasn't just a test of intelligence. They wanted me gone… without looking bad."
Sophie burst out laughing, nearly choking on her drink.
"So you didn't graduate early because you were amazing," she teased. "You graduated because they *couldn't stand you anymore*."
Daisy giggled, nodding.
"They expelled you politely!"
Niero sighed dramatically, waving a hand.
"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it out. Get it all out of your system. At the very least, I got a year off and you two have piles of homeworks"
But beneath the humor, a shadow lingered. Even as a troublemaker, even as someone who excelled academically, he had always felt apart. The academy's walls hadn't been a sanctuary—they had been a cage of expectations, judgment, a constant reminder that being different made him separate, untouchable, invisible all at once. Intelligence didn't shield him. Mischief didn't belong to him. Every success, every failure seemed to push him further from the world around him.
As if he didn't even fit in this "perfect" city.
He looked at his sisters, their faces glowing softly under the desk lamp, and the weight of those old walls eased, just slightly. Maybe here—at home, among family—he could finally let the world's harsh rules slip away, even if only for a moment.
Niero leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee.
"But, you know…" His voice dropped to a whisper, almost for himself. "…being an outsider has its perks too. You notice things others don't. You see paths they can't. And sometimes… it gives you a chance to survive where they can't."
Sophie and Daisy didn't reply. They just chewed quietly, the silence not awkward but comforting, almost reverent.
Niero gathered Sophie's senior high school assignments and Daisy's junior high worksheets, stacking them neatly on the low table.
"While Mom and Aunt Alura are manning the counter downstairs, I can take a break and help you two with your homework," he said, voice calm but resolute, the faintest edge of warmth threading through his words.
Sophie waved a hand dismissively, though her tired eyes softened.
"You don't have to. You're probably exhausted yourself."
Niero shook his head, a small, determined smile tugging at his lips.
"The sooner I help you, the sooner you can be free from all these pesky post-holiday assignments."
Daisy's eyes lit up like tiny lanterns, and she flung her small arms around his waist.
"Thanks, big brother!" she exclaimed, pressing her face into his side.
Sophie stepped forward as well, wrapping her arms around him in a gentler, lingering hug.
"You're never an outsider, Niero," she murmured softly. "You're our brother. The one we love and cherish, no matter how wild or impossible you are."
Niero froze for a heartbeat, the words sinking in like sunlight piercing a cloud. His chest loosened, a quiet warmth blossoming there, and he let himself return their hug with careful tenderness. He could feel their trust, their love—not the teasing, not the chaos, just a steady, unshakeable certainty that he belonged here.
Even amidst tired limbs, scattered papers, and the hum of a busy household downstairs, this quiet little moment felt like a victory.
He pulled back slightly, ruffling Daisy's hair with a small, protective smile, and glanced at Sophie, whose serene expression mirrored his own quiet relief. "Alright," he said softly, settling onto the floor with the piles of assignments before him.
"Let's tackle these together."
"YEAH!!!" Cheered by the sisters.
And in that simple, ordinary act of helping his sisters, Niero felt something rare: a sense of home, of being seen, and of belonging.
=
[ March 16th, 2087 (Evening) | Upper Floor (Dining Hall) > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
By evening, Niero and Sophie were just about to help Mom with dinner when Aunt Alura swept in like a sudden plot twist, swinging a plastic bag triumphantly in her hand. "Guess who scored big today?" she announced, voice booming.
Inside the bag were boxes of chicken and fish biryani, accompanied by side dishes—deep-fried, battered cauliflower Gobi 65—and desserts stacked like treasures: bright orange Motichur Laddu and Gulab Jamun, rose-scented milk balls floating in syrup. All from Arjun's Royal Biryani. The aroma spilled into the air, rich, spicy, and dangerously appetizing.
"I won a lousy little coupon at mahjong," Alura said, swiping a dramatic hand across the air as if she were revealing Excalibur. "One of my stingy gambling buddies was too cheap to claim it, so I pulled off a little heist—supermarket, restaurants, all sorts of favors traded. And *voilà*—dinner is served!"
Mom, Sophie and Daisy was stary-eyed with such colorful and aromatic food that was stated to maintain its cultural recipe long even before the arrival of the Radiant Empress, long before infamous Black December, food that is too delicious to not eat.
Plus, its been long they had Indian food.
Niero, on the other hand, froze mid-step, staring at the logo on the plastic bag. His chest tightened as a rush of memories hit him like a cosmic jab: steel clashing, spices flying, Rank-D Orkoid Orcs smashing through Arjun's Royal Biryani's kitchen in a riot of chaos, sauce and curry painting the walls like war trophies. His spine stiffened, reflexively, and for a moment he could almost hear the orc's guttural roar.
And yet… the aroma was too rich, too inviting. He blinked, shaking the memory away. It's just food, he told himself. Delicious food.
The family gathered upstairs in the dining hall, the table groaning under the weight of steaming boxes, clinking cups, and carefully arranged utensils. Niero sat back, taking a deep breath as the familiar warmth of home seeped into his chest.
Aunt Alura dove straight into storytelling. "So there I am, right? Hands trembling, the tiles stacked like Mount Everest, and—oh! You should've seen his face when I snatched the coupons right from under him. Priceless!" She cackled, tossing a piece of Gobi 65 onto her plate.
Mom, quieter but no less sharp, commented between sips of tea, "Just remember, Alura, every favor has its cost. Some debts are invisible, but they catch up."
Sophie leaned forward, hands animated as she waved a fork. "I swear, homework is cruel. They want us to suffer, deliberately. I've practically lost three brain cells per equation today."
Daisy, stuffing a Motichur Laddu into her mouth, chimed in, muffled but happy. "And yet, sweets fixes everything!"
Even Pumpkin enjoying some of the fish that was placed in its feeding bowl. But that also led to Alura using her feet to prevent the cat's idea of jump on the table for 'seconds'.
Niero smiled quietly, watching them—the laughter, the small complaints, the way everyone elbowed each other playfully. He took a bite of biryani, rich spices and gravy marinated chicken warming his senses, and let himself just be there.
=
[ March 16th, 2087 (Night) | Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Later that night, Niero and Aunt Alura made sure Sophie and Daisy were tucked into their rooms. Both girls drifted into sleep wrapped in the comfort only home could give—Daisy among pink walls, magical girl motifs, and plushies, while Sophie among textbooks and scattered papers that now somehow felt less oppressive.
In Daisy's room, Niero gently pulled the covers over her shoulders. Her small face peeked from under the blanket, eyes heavy-lidded but still glimmering with quiet disappointment.
"Big brother," she murmured, voice small and slightly miffed, "Sophie and Aunt Alura ate most of the Gobi 65. There's none left for me."
Niero ruffled her hair softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Hey, don't worry," he said. "Tomorrow, I'll either buy more… or learn how to make it myself. That's a promise."
Her lips curved into a tiny, sleepy smile. "Really?"
"Really," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Daisy turned onto her side, clutching her favorite plushie, and drifted into sleep without another word.
Once both bedroom doors clicked quietly shut, the house seemed to exhale, the soft ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the comfortable silence.
Alura's playful tone from earlier had vanished. She leaned slightly closer, eyes serious.
"It's time," she said softly, voice quieter than she had used all day. "You need to talk to your mom."
Niero nodded, tension coiling in his chest. Alura guided him down the stairs, past the dimly lit café where night pressed gently against the windows like a velvet curtain. Behind the counter, Mom stood alone, her posture stiff, a small glint of amber catching the light from the overhead lamp—Cowboy Jebodiah's Texan Whiskey in hand.
Niero froze.
He had never—not once—seen her touch hard liquor.
Even Alura, standing slightly behind him, raised an eyebrow.
"Need a refill, maybe?" she joked lightly, though her eyes betrayed concern.
Mom's hand slid the bottle back out of reach, her expression tightening.
"This isn't for fun," she said quietly, voice low and steady.
"Just… to steady my nerves."
"For what?" Niero asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mom didn't answer immediately. She held his gaze, the weight of her eyes pressing down with something that was equal parts love and fear. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she nodded toward the kitchen behind the counter.
"You'll understand soon enough," she said.
Niero swallowed, chest tightening. Alura gave him a quick, encouraging nod before stepping aside.
With each step into the back of the café, the warm scents of brewed coffee and leftover spices faded, replaced by the quiet gravity of the night. The hum of the city beyond the windows felt distant, almost irrelevant.
Beyond the kitchen, Mom pushed open the heavy door leading into the basement storage. A gust of cold air rolled out to greet them, sharp with the scent of chilled ingredients and frozen goods in atleast 2 large freezers as well as the faint tang of metal shelves stacked high with unused café equipment . Niero followed silently, a tightening knot of confusion and unease coiling in his chest. He had been down here countless times—or so he thought.
Then Mom stopped.
Her hands moved deliberately to a large cabinet flush against the concrete wall, the one Niero had always assumed was permanently bolted in place. With a firm shove, the cabinet slid aside on hidden hinges, the muted scrape of metal echoing through the cavernous space.
Behind it was a door.
A door he had never noticed.
Mom's fingers curled around the handle, and with a slow, deliberate pull, she opened it.
Light spilled into the basement, soft but unyielding, revealing a compact room that felt too deliberate to be part of the café. Bare concrete walls, a single ceiling lamp humming softly, and at its center a sturdy wooden table surrounded by several chairs. Every detail seemed arranged with precision, a subtle tension in the air that made Niero's spine straighten automatically.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished wood, a stark contrast to the homey warmth upstairs—almost jarring. It reminded him of interrogation rooms he'd seen in old movies, spaces where every question carried consequence, and every silence was loaded with threat.
Mom stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the floor, then gestured toward a chair.
"Sit," she said quietly, her voice calm but carrying the weight of command.
Niero's pulse quickened. He obeyed, sliding into the chair, eyes sweeping over the stark space. There was no hum of coffee machines, no chatter of customers, no comforting smell of baked bread—just the gravity of intention pressing in around him.
"Before we talk," Mom said, her gaze locking onto his, piercing but measured, "I need you to understand something. This conversation… it's about choices. About risks. About what it truly means to walk the path you're thinking about."
Niero swallowed, hands tightening on his knees.
Alura stepped inside after them, the hidden door closing behind her with a dull thunk that echoed across the concrete walls.
"We needed somewhere private," Mom said, her eyes briefly meeting Niero's. "No customers. No sisters. Just us."
Niero's gaze swept the room again, unease prickling at the back of his neck. "I've… never seen this room before."
Alura leaned against the wall, arms folded, a grin tugging at her lips. "That's because this is mine and your mom's women's cave. Our place to be alone, to chill—a place we can let loose for a time."
Niero blinked once. Then again.
"First of all," he said flatly, "that sounds very, weirdly sexual."
Mom didn't flinch. She nodded, a short, amused chuckle escaping her lips. "It really does," she admitted.
"And second," Niero continued, gesturing toward the bare table and the single hanging lamp, "I don't know what kind of definition you two have for 'chill,' but this plae looks like somewhere people get interrogated… or… you know… tortured."
Mom laughed softly, the sound warm but carrying an edge of authority, and it eased the tension just a fraction. "Fair point," she said.
Then she reached into her pin-apron pouch and drew out a small object, holding it gently in her hand.
It was a black cube, perfectly smooth, its surface etched with faint purple lines that pulsed like a living heartbeat beneath solid matter. It was no larger than her fist, yet Niero felt a strange familiarity, as though he had seen its pattern before, though never up close.
Mom's fingers rested lightly on the cube. Her eyes softened, but her voice carried the weight of both caution and gravity.
"This," she said quietly, her words deliberate, "is more than it meets the eye."
Niero leaned forward slightly, curiosity and caution warring in his chest. "What… exactly is it?" he asked, voice low. His heartbeat quickened as if sensing that whatever answer came next would change everything he thought he knew.
Alura, still leaning against the wall, tilted her head, lips curling into that sly grin.
"You're about to find out…"
Mom pressed a concealed button on the cube.
A low hum vibrated through the air, faint at first, then growing until it thrummed in Niero's chest, his teeth almost tingling from the resonance.
From the cube, a cuboid wave of violet energy erupted outward, expanding in perfectly measured layers. It washed over the concrete walls, the ceiling, the floor—over Niero himself—without pain, without resistance.
The room… stretched.
Concrete walls slid back as if reality itself were unfolding, elongating far beyond their original dimensions. Cold, familiar cement gave way to sleek, semi-futuristic surfaces, traced with faint glowing lines that hummed softly. The ceiling rose higher, leaving them under a vast, open expanse. The air shifted, cleaner, sharper—alive in a way that made Niero's skin tingle.
Behind Mom, the floor transformed into a wide dojo-like mat, seamless and pristine. Punching bags swayed lightly, and spinning Wing Chun wooden dummies rotated slowly, their polished surfaces catching the soft violet light.
Behind Niero—where the hidden entrance had been—walls dissolved into weapon racks arranged with military precision: firearms, blades, polearms, and strange hybrid implements that seemed engineered for lethality. Near the entrance, heavier gear waited in ominous silhouettes, all lined neatly. Everything radiated purpose. Everything whispered of battles fought and won.
Niero's breath caught. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear—though there was that—but from the sheer magnitude of it.
"What the hell is this…?" he asked, voice low, disbelief thick as fog in his tone.
He turned slowly, letting his eyes take in every detail: the dojo, the weapons, the impossible scale of the room.
Aunt Alura was chill, leaning against the weapon rack with a half smirk.
Then he looked back to Mom infront of him.
Mom didn't smile. She didn't soften. Her gaze was steady, unnervingly calm.
She met his eyes, and the quiet around them deepened, almost oppressive.
She said with a firm voice, with syllables as sharp as a blade.
"An ultimatum."
=
<<<[ Ch 14 - END ]>>>