The cafeteria buzzed with its usual midday chatter—clinking cutlery, bursts of laughter, the shuffle of boots on polished stone floors—but today, all that sound seemed to bend toward a single point. Every pair of eyes stole glances, some wide with curiosity, others scrunched with irritation or disbelief. At the center of it all sat the towering giant of a boy, hunched over the table that barely seemed strong enough to hold the mountain of plates before him.
He gobbled food down with a single-minded focus, each bite vanishing as though swallowed by a bottomless pit. His massive hands moved quickly, shoveling meat and bread in with startling speed. Grease smeared across his chin, and when he looked up, his eyes glowed with childlike wonder—innocent, almost naïve.
Luca leaned an elbow on the table, pinching the bridge of his nose, and asked, "What do you mean by complicated?" His voice was low, wary.
