Wolf slid the final book back into its folded metal drawer with deliberate care. The drawer obeyed him with a muted thrum, collapsing inward like a restrained breath being released.
For a moment, he stood there in the secret archive, palm resting lightly on the cool metal.
Then he turned, retraced his steps, and sealed the room exactly as Solina had instructed.
The wall folded shut without a seam, without a sound, as though it had never existed.
He moved through the living space quietly, footsteps measured, posture relaxed but alert. The clockwork heart of the house ticked on behind the walls—steady, patient, indifferent.
That was when he saw her.
Solina sat at one side of the table, spine straight, shoulders relaxed, hands folded loosely near her lap. The table had already unfolded, and upon it lay what could only generously be called breakfast: thin, rectangular wafers stacked with military precision, beside several flat bars of pale dough.
No steam. No aroma. No warmth to speak of—only function, stripped bare.
She didn't look at him.
But Wolf knew.
He crossed the room and stopped across from her, gaze drifting over the food before returning to her profile. His tone softened, deliberately playful, like testing the edge of calm water.
"Tell me about breakfast."
Solina answered without turning her head.
"Iron wafers," she said evenly. "Tasteless. And compressed dough bars. They resemble cardboard, but they maintain satiety for extended periods."
Wolf's brow rose immediately—one sharp, expressive arc of disbelief. He reached down, picked up one of the wafers between two fingers, weighed it, tapped it lightly against the table.
Clink.
"You've really been eating this," he said slowly, "for… how long, exactly?"
She finally glanced at him then—cool, measuring, entirely unapologetic.
"It is efficient."
Wolf exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half a sigh. He set the wafer down as though it had offended him personally.
"Where's the kitchen?"
Solina mirrored him perfectly.
One eyebrow lifted—same angle, same timing—and she raised a hand, pointing toward the lever use for bedroom.
"Same lever," she said. "But pull it up."
Wolf didn't hesitate.
He lunged for the lever, his hand gripping the cold metal and wrenching it upward.
The steel plate beneath his feet separated with a low mechanical hum, the entire working platform rising vertically like a stage revealed mid-performance.
Panels unfolded. Surfaces locked into place.
The space expanded not outward, but into itself—dense, purposeful, efficient.
Wolf watched, fascinated, as a retractable knife slot clicked into place and various weighing instruments slid out from hidden recesses.
Three thermal pistons hummed within the wall, glowing with a soft, orange lethality that reminded him of high-end industrial ovens. His eyes wandered to the far wall, where clear plastic shelves were folded in complex, origami-like layers.
A miniature hydroponics system, Wolf thought, stepping closer to see the condensation beading on the plastic.
She grows her own herbs and glowing flora here. She must unfold these to let them breathe, then tuck them away to soak up the light from the internal lamps.
Smart. Compact. But wasted on those wafers.
He looked up, searching for a sink, only to find a strange metal dispenser protruding from the ceiling like a mechanical stinger.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the rotating codes on its base. Purified water, concentrated soup, lotus oil...
"Alright," Wolf sighed, a long, weary sound that carried a hint of a smile.
"This is going to be difficult."
He rubbed his face once, more amused than distressed.
"I just want a decent meal."
He wasn't looking for a five-star experience, just something that didn't taste like a shipping container. As he stood there, mentally mapping out his move, a soft whirring sound came from above. A robotic spider arm descended from the ceiling with a terrifyingly fluid motion, dangling compressed vacuum boxes and a wicked-looking steam injection needle.
Wolf's heart skipped. He snatched the boxes, tearing them open to find a hoard of preserved meats he hadn't expected her to have. He looked at the meat, then at the lush greenery in the hydroponics, then back at Solina, who remained seated, watching him with an unreadable expression.
She has all this, yet chooses to eat like some slaves in the mines?
Wolf's mind raced, but then a realization slowed his pulse. A low, guttural chuckle escaped his throat.
Heh. She's testing me and since she's staying silent... she's giving me the run of the place.
"Let's call it part of the deal, then," Wolf muttered to himself, his movements becoming sharper, more professional.
He cleared his mind and focused on the task.
"The menu... Fried Sea Bass with Three-Flavor Sauce. A little taste of Thailand in the belly of a beast."
He reached for a slab of fish meat from the vacuum box.
It was unnervingly dense, the fibers squeezed tight by what Wolf guessed was extreme deep-sea water pressure. Even the vacuum seal couldn't have done this.
He grabbed the steam injection needle, his movements precise as he plunged it into the meat. With a hiss of white vapor, the fish began to swell, its fibers relaxing and expanding back to its original, succulent size.
Next, he grabbed a handful of the dry dough sheets—the dreaded wafers. He didn't eat them. Instead, he fed them into a grinder attachment on the robotic arm. The machine whirred, spitting out a fine, starchy powder that he would use for a deep-fry batter.
Wolf moved again, faster now.
He selected an oil with a sharply sour aroma, something between lemongrass and tamarind. He pressed it through the thermal extractor, isolating only the dark green essence.
He tasted crystal sugar—eyes widening slightly at its dry, piercing sweetness. Mineral brine followed, sharp and clean, rich with pure sodium and trace minerals.
He moved to the seasonings: crystal sugar that felt like diamonds between his fingers—drier and far more potent than anything from the surface—and a bottle of Mineral Brine.
He took a tiny drop of the brine on his finger, tasting it.
It was a punch of pure sodium and metallic minerals.
Wolf's eyes sharpened. He had the components. Now, he just had to cook.
"Alright," he said under his breath.
"Now we're cooking."
Wolf's posture shifted.
The moment he stepped fully into the kitchen's rhythm, his body moved with a different cadence—shoulders loose, spine aligned, breath shallow and controlled. This was not combat, yet the focus in his eyes was the same as when blood was on the table.
He reached for the high-frequency knife.
The blade did not gleam. It hummed—a quiet, insect-like vibration that resonated faintly through his fingers the instant he activated it.
Wolf lowered his gaze to the fish, studying it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, eyes tracing invisible lines only he seemed to see.
"Natural fractal folds," he murmured under his breath.
His wrist moved with precise.
The knife slid through the flesh without resistance, but not in straight cuts—each slice followed the fish's internal structure, branching subtly, like cutting along the grain of reality itself.
Cubes formed, each one intact, each one carrying micro-folds within its flesh.
When heat enters, he thought, it will travel the folds instead of tearing them apart.
He set the cubes aside and turned to the metal platform.
The powder the robotic arm had prepared was spread thinly across the surface. Wolf tapped a control panel with his knuckle, activating the ultrasonic vibration system.
A low thrumming filled the air.
The powder lifted.
Not violently—gently, almost reverently—rising into a faint, shimmering cloud that hovered just above the platform, particles suspended as if time had loosened its grip on them.
Wolf's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Good," he said quietly.
He reached for the liquid manifold, dialed it with a practiced flick, and injected a thin, near-transparent layer of egg white protein over the fish cubes. The coating clung like dew, barely visible but alive with tension.
Then—his hand moved.
He didn't touch the controls.
He waved.
A subtle motion of fingers and wrist, carving the air itself. The suspended powder responded immediately, spiraling into a controlled vortex. The hum deepened, harmonics stacking over one another.
Wolf tossed a fish cube upward.
It vanished into the cloud.
The ultrasonic vibrations did the rest.
Powder rushed inward from all directions, adhering evenly, flawlessly, wrapping the moist surface in an impossibly thin yet compact layer.
No clumps. No weak points. When the cube dropped back into his palm, it was coated perfectly—smooth, taut, alive with stored potential.
Wolf stared at it for a second longer than he meant to.
"…Even without ether," he thought, a quiet laugh stirring in his chest.
Pure technology. Axion Kingdom… is truly ridiculous.
He rotated the ceiling dispenser, aligning it to lotus oil.
The oil flowed into the thermal press, and the spider-like robotic arm seized the device immediately, spinning it at high speed. The interior walls became coated in a shimmering, blistering-hot film—thin as breath, lethal as fire.
Wolf didn't hesitate.
He dropped the breaded fish cubes inside.
The thermal unit sealed.
Pressure surged.
Air compressed violently, forcing the batter inward, locking it to the flesh as heat detonated through the fractal folds. The cooking was instantaneous—so fast that Wolf's fingers were already moving, switching modes within two seconds flat.
"Too long and it drinks the oil," he muttered.
The press shifted.
Now it vibrated.
The oil film lining the walls was ejected outward as microscopic, incandescent droplets—hammering the batter in rapid succession. The surface bloomed, puffing into countless tiny, crisp flakes, each one locked into place before it could collapse.
Wolf snapped the air valve open.
A roar.
High-pressure air blasted through the chamber, stripping away excess oil in a single, brutal exhale. When the unit opened again, the fish cubes emerged dry to the touch, feather-light, their surfaces crackling faintly as they cooled.
Crisp enough to endure.
Strong enough to accept the three-flavor sauce that would soon be poured over it—without surrendering, without softening, without breaking.
Wolf exhaled slowly, shoulders finally easing.
"Shit…"
The word slipped through Wolf's teeth as he straightened slightly, shoulders tense, fingers still hovering above the controls.
This might be even more intense than some fights I've had…
A dry laugh echoed only inside his chest. Combat demanded violence.This demanded precision.
Then—his brow twitched.
"Oh."
He froze for half a breath.
"I forgot the sauces."
For a lesser cook, it would've been a disaster.
For Wolf, it was a brief detour.
"Ah—fine," he muttered, already moving.
He gathered the three ingredients without ceremony: the concentrated fish sauce, the berry-derived acid, and the amber crystal sweetener. His hands were calm now, movements efficient, like a strategist rearranging pieces already decided.
He poured them into a high-pressure container.
The microgram scale flickered alive.
Wolf leaned closer, eyes narrowing, breath slowing. One crystal grain at a time dropped into the mixture—click… click…—until the ratio aligned. Not approximate. Exact.
"Golden ratio," he whispered.
He activated the ultrasonic vibration system beneath the platform.
A soft, resonant hum filled the kitchen, deeper than before. Within the container, molecular bonds began to fracture—not violently, but selectively.
Sweet molecules, heavier, sank inward. Sour ones, lighter, danced outward. The vibration coaxed them together, weaving them into a single, seamless profile.
"No oil," Wolf noted internally, lips curling faintly.
Clean fusion.
He transferred the mixture into the second thermal-press.
The robotic arm responded instantly, drawing out the air with a whispering hiss. Vacuum sealed.
As the sauce began to boil—not roil, bloom—Wolf adjusted the thermal to rise and fall in slow, rhythmic pulses.
Pressure waves rippled through the liquid, kneading it from within. The color deepened, shifting from dull amber to something alive—thick, luminous, glossy.
A ruby-amber sheen caught the light like molten glass.
"Good," Wolf breathed. "Now the last part."
He reached for tweezers—tapered metal tongs cool against his fingers—and lifted each fish cube with care. One by one, he placed them onto the plate, arranging them in a Fibonacci spiral. Not for aesthetics alone.
Air pockets. Flow paths. Structural harmony.
The coded dispenser rotated with a muted click.
Threads of sauce descended—so thin they trembled in the air—golden strands falling in perfect control. Wolf raised his hand and moved it slowly, guiding the descent. The sauce responded, swirling gently, wrapping each cube in a precise arc.
The center glazed.
The base stayed crisp.
The top remained dry.
He pinched a few leaves he'd tasted earlier—mint, he decided—and slender peppers. The vibration scalpel hummed briefly, chopping them finer than breath. He flicked his wrist.
Green and red scattered across the sauce like jewels.
Emerald and amber.
Wolf exhaled with satisfied.
He carried the plate into the living room.
Solina looked up.
She didn't speak.
The once-stern metal table seemed… altered. Reflections danced across the glossy glaze, light refracting through the sauce as if it were crystal. The dish didn't just sit there—it commanded attention.
Solina's amber eyes traced the spiral, the colors, the deliberate restraint.
A few seconds passed before she realized she'd stopped breathing.
"…My apologies," she said quietly, straightening.
Wolf sat opposite her and extended a hand, palm up, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
His voice shifted—lighter, playful, almost theatrical.
"Please take a bite, dear Solina."
The cadence was unmistakable.
She blinked.
"…Are you imitating a waiter?"
"Badly," Wolf admitted without caring.
She didn't refuse.
Her fork touched the fish.
The moment it broke the surface, a soft crack sounded—crisp yielding to tender. She raised it to her lips, paused just long enough to hesitate, then bit.
Her eyes widened.
Her shoulders stiffened.
"What kind of food is this…" she murmured, voice trembling. "Even when I was—"
She stopped herself.
Swallowed.
The lingering warmth and fragrance clung to her throat, the flavors unfolding in layers—sweet, sour, umami—each arriving in sequence, never colliding.
Wolf watched quietly.
When she took a second bite without realizing it, he finally allowed himself to eat.
They shared the meal.
Between bites, plans were discussed—measured, efficient. Trade routes. Safe houses. Names worth remembering. Names worth erasing. Their voices were low, calm, occasionally punctuated by the soft clink of cutlery.
By the time the plate was empty, so were the uncertainties.
Breakfast ended.
So did the planning.
They stepped out together into the morning.
The door slid shut behind them with a muted hush, sealing away the warmth and faint aroma of cooked sauce. Outside, the air was cooler—clean, slightly metallic, carrying the distant scent of stone and dew.
Wolf adjusted his pace without a word, long strides measured and unhurried.
Solina matched him instinctively, her steps falling into rhythm at his side, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed yet never quite touched.
The path curved through a quiet district, pale stone beneath their feet catching the slanted light of early day.
Wolf's coat shifted with each movement, fabric whispering softly. His gaze stayed forward, sharp and intent, though his thoughts drifted—briefly—to Moritz, to unfinished threads and debts left dangling.
Couple of minutes, he calculated. Enough time for excuses. Not enough to matter.
Solina glanced around as they walked, eyes taking in the tall hedges, the wrought-iron fences that grew more elaborate the farther they went. Her posture remained composed, chin lifted, but there was a tightness in her fingers where they curled and uncurled at her side.
She didn't speak. Neither did he. Their silence wasn't awkward—it was loaded, purposeful, like the held breath before a strike.
Moritz's mansion emerged at the end of the road like a statement carved from wealth and reputation. High walls of pale marble veined with gold caught the light, gates standing broad and immovable, sigils etched deep into their surface. The place didn't just sit there—it loomed.
They stopped at the entrance.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then footsteps approached from within, measured but quickening.
Two guards came into view, armored in polished steel, hands resting near their weapons more out of habit than intent. One of them lifted his head—
—and froze.
His breath hitched audibly.
"Ah—sir Wolf!" the guard blurted out, voice cracking despite himself. He straightened too fast, heels clicking together, eyes wide with a mix of shock and dread.
"Uh—Moritz had told us about you, sir! B-but he's sleeping right now. You may have to come back another time around, sir!"
Wolf said nothing.
He only looked at him.
They were the same height, eye to eye, yet the guard felt himself shrinking under that gaze.
Wolf didn't glare. Didn't frown. His face was neutral, almost blank—but there was a weight to it, an oppressive stillness that pressed down on the air itself.
The guard swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.
Without breaking eye contact, Wolf stepped forward.
Then another step.
He passed them.
The guards instinctively shifted aside, boots scraping against stone as Solina followed, her movements precise, perfectly aligned with his pace.
She didn't glance at them—not even once. Her eyes remained fixed on the mansion ahead, expression unreadable, as though the guards were nothing more than furniture left in the wrong place.
Wolf took several more steps before speaking.
"We will be waiting at the guest room then," he said, his voice flat, energetic, uninflected—each word cleanly cut and placed. He turned his head halfway back, just enough for them to hear him clearly, not enough to grant them the courtesy of his full attention.
The guards nodded too quickly, one nearly stammering out a response that never fully formed.
Wolf faced forward again—
Then stopped.
The sudden halt sent a jolt through the guards' spines.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned back this time. One hand lifted, fingers sliding through his hair in a sleek, casual motion, as though this were nothing more than a polite social call. His lips curved—not warm, not kind—into a thin, controlled smile.
"Inform your master," Wolf said evenly, voice smooth as polished steel, "that the Armanis came to pay a visit—and do not like to be kept waiting."
His eyes held the guard's as he finished the sentence, smile lingering just long enough to unsettle.
Solina remained facing forward, gaze locked on Moritz's mansion, posture calm and unyielding.