The scent of sizzling garlic and grilled meat filled the Emiya kitchen, an aroma so familiar it tugged at something in Shirō's brain. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Archer moved with precision, chopping vegetables with the same efficiency he used to fire arrows.
Rin sat at the table, drumming her fingers against the wood. "So… why are you cooking?"
Archer didn't even look up as he tossed onions into the pan. "Because someone has to."
Shirō narrowed her eyes. There was something off about this. It wasn't just that Archer was cooking—it was how he was cooking. Every movement, every choice of ingredient, even the way he tasted the broth with a flick of the spoon…
It's exactly the same as how I cook.
She stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. "What are you making?"
"Curry."
Shirō blinked. "I was going to make curry."
Rin snorted. "What, are you two sharing a brain cell now?"
Shirō ignored her, watching as Archer plated the dish. The way he arranged the rice, the way he garnished it with a little bit of parsley—exactly like she would.
"...Why do you cook like me?" Shirō finally asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.
Archer turned, meeting her gaze with a blank stare. Then, with the smuggest smirk imaginable, he simply said—
"Maybe you cook like me."
Silence.
Then—
Rin burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Shirō, is he implying—"
Shirō scowled. "Shut up."
Archer just continued setting the table, completely unbothered, as Shirō glared at him like he'd personally offended her entire existence. The worst part? The curry smelled amazing.
And that only made her more suspicious.
[—(/-\)—]
Illya sat on the edge of the stone railing, her small feet swinging back and forth as she stared into the darkened horizon. The Einzbern estate loomed behind her, cold and distant, but she hardly cared. She was angry. Very angry.
That night—that night—she had almost caught him. Or was it her now? Shirō Emiya had changed, and Illya wasn't quite sure what to call her anymore. Big Brother? Big Sister? Whatever. It didn't matter. The point was, she had slipped away, escaping just when Illya had her exactly where she wanted.
Illya's lips curled into a pout. That wasn't how things were supposed to go. Shirō was supposed to be hers. To break. To shatter. To suffer as she had suffered.
Berserker stood beside her, a silent, hulking shadow, his breath like a distant storm. He didn't understand her frustration, of course. He barely understood anything beyond fighting, killing, obeying. But that was fine. He didn't need to understand.
Because today—today—she would not fail.
Today, she would find Shirō.
And she would make sure she died slowly.