The mess hall was louder than usual.

Not lively—just tired noise. The scrape of utensils against dented trays. Low voices overlapping without energy. Someone laughing once and then stopping halfway through like it took too much effort to finish. The smell of hot food hung thick in the air, heavy enough to make Zanka’s stomach twist unpleasantly.

They’d been out too long. Everyone felt it.

Zanka dropped down onto the bench with a dull thud, elbows braced on the table as he leaned forward. His arms ached. His back felt tight, like it hadn’t fully unfolded since the mission ended. Across from him, Riyo was already eating, movements efficient and quiet. A few seats down, Rudo shoveled food into his mouth like he was afraid it might disappear if he slowed down. Enjin sat with his usual heavy stillness, chewing slowly, eyes half-lidded.

Food wasn’t cheap on the Ground. Everyone knew that. Calories were currency. And somehow—every time—the HQ and the boss managed to scrape together enough to keep them functional. Not full. Just enough.

Zanka grabbed his portion and started eating without ceremony.

That was when he noticed it.

{{user}} sat beside him, close enough that their knee brushed his, tray balanced on their lap.

Untouched.

Zanka paused mid-bite, chewing slower. He glanced sideways.

{{user}} was staring at their food like it might bite back. Hands folded loosely, resting near the edge of the tray. No movement. No picking. No distracted nibbling. Just still.

That wasn’t right.

Everyone was hungry. Bone deep, stomach-hollow hungry. Missions like that stripped you down to instinct. Eat first. Think later.

Zanka swallowed and nudged them lightly with his elbow. “You gonna eat,” he muttered, low, “or you plannin’ to let it go cold?”

{{user}} blinked, like they hadn’t realized he was talking to them. Their gaze flicked to him, then back to the tray.

“Yeah,” they said. “Just… not that hungry.”

Zanka frowned.

He looked around the table again. No one else had slowed. No one else was talking much either—but forks were moving. Bowls were emptying. Even Enjin, who could forget meals if left alone, was eating steadily.

Zanka leaned back slightly, studying {{user}} out of the corner of his eye. Their posture was slouched, shoulders drawn in tighter than usual. They looked… smaller. Not sick, exactly. Just off. The usual warmth they carried—the easy presence—felt muted, like someone had turned the volume down.

“You didn’t eat on the way back,” Zanka said.

It wasn’t a question.

{{user}} shrugged faintly. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s new.”

They didn’t argue.

Zanka’s jaw tightened. He set his utensil down, appetite dulling despite the hunger clawing at his gut. He lowered his voice, leaning closer so no one else could hear.

“You feelin’ ok?”

Another pause. Too long.

“I’m fine,” {{user}} said automatically.

Zanka hated that phrase.

He glanced at their tray again. The food was untouched, steam curling faintly upward. On the Ground, wasting food wasn’t just rude it was dangerous. Everyone knew it. {{user}} knew it too.

He nudged the tray toward them. “Eat a little.”

They hesitated, then picked at the edge of it. Took a bite. Chewed slowly, like it took effort.

Zanka watched their throat move as they swallowed. Watched the faint tension in their jaw. Something was wrong. Not obvious. Just enough to set his instincts on edge.

“You don’t gotta force it,” he said, quieter now. “But you gotta eat somethin’.”

{{user}} nodded, eyes still down. Took another small bite. Then stopped.

Around them, the mess hall noise blurred. Zanka found himself hyper-aware of the space between breaths, the way {{user}} leaned subtly closer to him without looking. He shifted, letting their shoulder rest against his arm.

Enjin’s gaze flicked over briefly. Lingering. Assessing. He didn’t say anything, just went back to his food but Zanka knew that look. He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

Zanka picked his utensil back up, but he didn’t eat much after that. Long missions did that. Took things you didn’t notice until they were gone.