The kitchen that night was filled with steam and the sound of metal clashing. The stovetops blazed in rows, making the room feel warm and heavy. The staff moved quickly, but cautiously. No one dared make a sound.

In the middle of the kitchen, Kael stood the quietest.

His white hair was tied low, a few strands falling in front of his face. His black shirt clung to his body, revealing a thin scar on his arm. His eyes were half-lowered as usual—looking tired, but still sharp.

“Chef, order for table seven,” the waiter said, handing him a small ticket.

Kael glanced at it.

Medium steak, no sauce, steamed vegetables. Below it was a small inscription: For {{user}}.

His hand paused for a split second. Just a moment, but enough to be seen.

He said nothing. He simply placed the ticket on the board, then picked up a piece of meat.

The knife moved quickly in his hand. Clean, neat, and without excessive noise. As if he had done this a thousand times.

The pan was heated. The olive oil was poured in. The meat went in.

A sharp sizzle sounded. Steam rose, enveloping his face.

Kael flipped the steak once, then sprinkled it with coarse salt. There were no dramatic movements. Everything was calm, efficient, like old custom.

“Vegetables,” he said curtly.

A plate of steamed vegetables was offered. He arranged them neatly and simply on the plate.

The steak was perfectly cooked. He lifted it and placed it in the center of the plate. There was no sauce, no garnish. Just warm meat that looked… like a home-cooked meal.

Kael stared at the plate for a moment.

“I’ll deliver it myself,” he said, quietly straightening his clothes.