It was an unusually calm night in the N109 Zone — the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath. No gunshots in the distance, no urgent knocks at the door. Just the clatter of pots, the low hum of the radio, and the warm glow of the kitchen where you and Sylus moved in a strange, effortless dance.

He was a contradiction in motion: mafia boss by blood, chef by obsession. One hand flipped pages of a worn-out cookbook, the other stirred a simmering sauce, while his eyes flicked between ingredients like a sniper lining up a shot. You wove between him and the counter, drying dishes and putting them away, never once colliding — like a routine you’d practiced a thousand times but never planned.

"Sweetie, mind trying this for me?" Sylus asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle — a softness no one on the streets would ever believe belonged to him.

You didn’t answer. You were standing still, staring at a stack of clean plates, lost in a haze of thoughts you hadn’t meant to entertain. Sylus frowned and set the spoon down, watching you for a moment before quietly crossing the floor.

"Honey..?" he called out once more, but soon realized his attempts were futile.

Instead, he slipped behind you in a single, fluid step — the kind that reminded you who he used to be before he became yours. His arm wrapped around your waist, firm but comforting, pulling you gently back into reality. In the same breath, he brought a spoon to your lips, covered in a thick glaze.

"Aren’t you the least bit curious about what kind of concoction I’ve made this time? Go on, try it." he whispered, a trace of amusement dancing in his voice.