Diablo walked toward the cafeteria, freshly bathed and wearing a slightly less rumpled uniform.
His stomach had growled several times already, and he imagined that if anyone saw him, they'd probably think he was just being greedy rather than actually hungry. He gripped the key tightly in his hand, deciding that right after he ate, he'd give it to Lucas.
At least now, he had found the key.
When he entered the cafeteria, he realized everyone had already finished eating. Dirty plates were scattered across the tables, and a few of the assigned cleaners were already clearing the area. He silently prayed that maybe—just maybe—they'd still have something left for him. Even if it was just the food scraps, it would be better than nothing.
He took a deep breath and walked over to the cooking area, where a woman was already pouring water into the empty pot, preparing to wash it.
Oh, he was doomed. This meant there were no scraps? What a lucky day.
His eyes scanned—oh! There were two pots. One was left. This was his chance.
Just as he opened his mouth to speak, she turned on the tap. Water splashed loudly into the other pot.
His eyes widened, but he continued.
"Good morning, Ma. My food?" he asked quietly.
The woman glanced at him, then turned back to the task at hand like he was not important. In fact, the way she acted was like he was some fly who just passed by but caught her attention with its occasional buzzing sound.
"Why are you just getting here now? Aren't you supposed to arrive at the normal time?" she said as she lifted the pot to begin scrubbing it.
Diablo stood there, stunned. Not even leftovers. Not even scraps. Just—nothing.
"Wow," he muttered under his breath.
Diablo was really about to escape the day on an empty stomach. No food. Nothing. And the most annoying part? The part that truly ticked him off? It wasn't just the hunger. It was the fact that after everything he'd been through—after trying his best to keep food safe, to survive—he was being punished instead of rewarded.
It was so unfair, it was almost laughable. So stupidly obvious that even a preschool kid could point at it and say, "That's not right!"
What had he done to the commander? Why did the man seem to hate him with such passion, as if Diablo had personally offended his ancestors?
He sighed heavily and turned to leave, stomach growling, head low. Maybe humiliation was the dessert of the day.
But then, just as he was about to step away, he heard a voice—quiet, but clear.
"Wait."
He turned slowly, not sure if he'd imagined it. But there she was. The lady who had ignored him moments ago now stood with a plate in hand. Not a regular stainless one, but a fragile, breakable ceramic plate—one they rarely used, as if it were saved for occasions that never came.
She held it out to him.
He blinked.
Was it real food? Or just another slap in the face?
Diablo's eyes widened slightly in surprise as he stared at the woman. Was she… mistaken? If he wasn't wrong, that was the commander's plate—the one given to special guests who visited once in a blue moon.
Before he could ask, the lady spoke.
"The commander—James—isn't eating this morning. We forgot," she said nonchalantly. "So here. Better than wasting it. Take it."
His eyes widened further. What? This—this—was pit to palace? Was he finally gaining favor in the palace? Or was the universe just messing with him again?
He didn't wait for her to change her mind. Diablo took the plate immediately and made his way to one of the nearby tables. As he sat and opened the lid, his breath caught.
He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Wow.
So this was the kind of food the commander was getting served? It looked like something from a royal feast, not a soldier's ration. And they had the nerve to preach about fairness and "sharing is caring."
On the plate were neatly arranged fried eggs, soft bread with salad, a chilled glass of grape juice, a few assorted side dishes, mashed potatoes, and even a fruit kebab tucked into the corner.
"Ohhh… soft bread. It's been long," he murmured.
He shook his head, lips twitching with a dry chuckle.
"Perfecto," he muttered again, then quickly began to dig in before anyone could catch him. If they saw him with that kind of meal, he'd be explaining for hours—or worse, forced to give it up.
But right now? Right now, Diablo was living the dream life. For the first time in forever, he was actually enjoying something.
"Oh, nice," he whispered with a smirk as he continued, "I can see why the patient dog eats the fastest meat."
He picked up the fruit kebab and bit into it, savoring the juicy sweetness like it was the reward for surviving a war. He chewed slowly, deliberately, as if the fruit itself could wash away the misery of yesterday—the brutal workouts, the punishment, and, of course, the shame of nearly leaving the cafeteria on an empty stomach.
At least this fruit—he told himself—this fruit will power me through the madness of the Commander. Bald.
He leaned back slightly as he munched, his mind replaying the chaos of the day before. Oddly enough, he didn't feel an ounce of regret for what he'd done. Stealing the food last night? Worth it. Every bite now had been worth the risk.
Sure, he'd gotten water splashed in his face. Sure, he'd scrubbed a toilet so filthy it could have been a crime scene. But in the grand scheme of things? He actually gained.
Gained what even the second-in-command could not.
He got punished earlier, and now he was eating the commander's luxurious breakfast in secret while others were having training.
For once, life didn't seem so cruel.
He popped the last piece of fruit into his mouth, wiped his fingers on his uniform, and let out a small sigh of satisfaction.
"Diablo wins again," he whispered to himself with a smirk.
Calm down, his inner self said, reminding him.
Still, that didn't mean he should get carried away over such a small victory. And yet, here he was—already thinking far ahead, assuming things already.
Maybe today wasn't such an unlucky day after all, but he needed not speak too soon.
Just as he decided to relax a bit—
"BEEP"