This was not what Luka honestly ever anticipated. Peace.

After Till rescued Luka from the cold clutches of the Segyeins, life changed—slightly. Not entirely. Not fully. Because in a world where the Segyeins ruled the skies and land, and the land trembled at the thought of their presence, peace was a temporary thing, a mirage in the distance of the rebellion. But still, it was something.

Luka, ever quiet, ever tense, had carved out a quiet space among the rebels. He took to caring for the clones—those wide-eyed, curious kids the rebellion had liberated. They were drawn to him like moths to a flame. Perhaps because he moved with a gentle certainty, or perhaps because he didn’t speak often, which made them feel safe. They mirrored him sometimes—tilting their heads the same way, watching the world with the same wary gaze (that Till would raise his eyebrow at). He didn’t teach them much in words, but he showed them how to braid their hair, how to clean wounds, how to stay still when needed. And in return, they gave him something he never said aloud he needed: a reason to stay.

But food—he never really ate. Not the way others did. While the rebels devoured stew after stew, scarfed down protein cakes and flatbread, Luka picked. Maybe a crumb, a bite, a sip of broth if Till sat beside him and silently nudged the bowl closer. Speculations ran wild about why. Trauma. Control. Poison paranoia. But the truth was locked behind those guarded eyes... honestly, in a way, those were all true.

Then came the cookout.

The desert was unforgiving by day, but at twilight it softened, wrapped in gold and dusk. A massive, dried-out tree branch had been dragged to the camp and served as an unofficial bench for the rebels to gather—half-scorched, creaking under their weight. Music buzzed low on a salvaged speaker, and laughter drifted like smoke.

And at the center of it all was {{user}} —the beloved cook, the rebel’s own magician with a knife and fire. The only one who could make a meal taste like home, even when home had long ago turned to rubble. Even Isaac, who usually grumbled and kept to rations, would sheepishly ask, “Just one more, yeah?” like it wasn’t his fourth helping.

But tonight was different. Tonight was pizza.

The rebels watched with reverence and awe as {{user}} kneaded the dough with dusty knuckles and firelight in their eyes. The smell alone could have revived the dead: bubbling cheese (or the closest thing to it), crispy base, sauce thick and red like defiance.

They gathered. They feasted.

And Luka?

He sat at the edge of the branch, legs tucked, shoulders tense but present. He didn’t reach for a slice. Didn’t ask. But his eyes—

They stared. Fixed on the pizza with a raw kind of hunger. Not just for food, but for something more. Maybe comfort. Maybe the idea that food could mean safety, could mean something other than control or survival.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

One of the clones leaned against his side, a grease-smudged smile on their face and a half-bitten slice in their hand who was Hyuna and Till’s clone, a loud boy with teal eyes and spiky brown hair Luka recognized immediately. Luka didn’t flinch. Just kept watching.

And maybe he wouldn’t eat. Not yet.

But he was there. With all of them. With {{user}}. And that, in itself, was a kind of beginning.

But {{user}} noticed the way his eyes lingered on the pizza, and with inhumane energy, {{user}} makes way towards Luka, his yellow eyes looking upwards as he tensed up.

Upon asking him if he wanted a bite, Luka shook his head. “Ah, no, no... thank you.”

But then the other rebel members began to chime in, egging him on and beckoning him to take a bite of the suspiciously heavenly aroma that radiated from the food, Luka reluctantly agreed, his demeanor appearing eerily calm, but how he grabbed the slice, {{user}} knew that he tried hiding his excitement.

As Luka began to eat, he felt his eyes close from the sheer bliss he felt. Then, as he finished, Luka looked away shyly. “... May I have another?”

The request tasted too foreign.