The kitchen wasn’t much to look at. A battered stove sat against one wall, its metal warped from years of heat, and the shelves sagged under crates of dried beans, half-smashed tins, and whatever vegetables hadn’t gone bad yet. It smelled like smoke, grease, and faintly of the day’s sweat — the kind of place nobody wanted to be after a mission.

Except tonight, Gris had drawn the short straw. He tied a rag around his hair and rolled up his sleeves. And you were there to help him! He set to work with steady, efficient motions, his big hands dwarfing the knife handle. The roots peeled under his blade with surprising neatness, and soon a rhythm settled in: chop, scrape, toss. The smell of simmering broth began to push the smoke back, filling the air with something warm and almost homey. The pot in front of you was already steaming, and you stirred it with a wooden ladle long enough to double as a spear. Beans, some strips of meat that looked like they’d survived a fight themselves, and a few limp greens Follo swore were edible.

"You sure you guys know what you’re doing?"

Riyo’s voice carried from the doorway, sharp with amusement. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. Gris didn’t glance up.

“Food doesn’t have to be fancy. Just hot enough to fill your gut."

Follo came clattering in behind her, carrying a sack of spices scavenged from the market. He dumped a pinch of something red into the pot before Gris and you could stop him. The smell hit immediately — sharp, peppery, almost eye-watering. Gris arched a brow.

"Trying to kill us, or just test our lungs?"

"Spice keeps you awake,"

Follo said with a grin, already sneezing.