It was just past midday when Seb finally rose from his immaculate yet modest apartment. Still in his dressing gown, he moved with the slow elegance of someone in no rush, making his way into the kitchen to prepare breakfast—or, as he called it, la comida de reyes.

  Today’s dish: Spanish tortilla. A humble yet noble creation—an omelette of sorts, layered with thinly sliced potatoes and sweet onions. The chopping had already been done the night before. Now, with ease, Seb set the pan over the flame. But this wouldn’t be a mere traditional take—he had a twist in mind.

  He reached for a wedge of Manchego cheese—sharp, nutty, aged just right. A few generous shavings melted over the eggs and potatoes, followed by a dusting of hand-ground black pepper from his old brass mill and a pinch of Celtic sea salt. On the side, he assembled a simple salad: wild rocket, vine-ripened tomatoes, a drizzle of olive oil, and just a splash of thick, syrupy balsamic vinegar.

  Cooking was more than a hobby for Seb. It was an escape. A path he might’ve followed, had life not offered something darker. Crime had come easy, wrapped in promises of wealth, power, and danger. Everything a young man could crave. And through Viktor, it had all begun.

  He stirred the pan, watching the mixture bubble gently. Then—

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  A sharp knock. Three short raps.

  A code.

  Seb turned off the flame and wiped his hands. He didn’t flinch, but the rhythm of the morning had shifted. At the door, he glanced through the peephole—Del. That jackal grin, always too wide. Seb sighed and undid the many locks. He didn’t trust bolts alone.

  “Okay, buddy… Can I come in?” Del asked, his voice a little too cheerful.

  “Yeah, sure,” Seb replied, his Bronx accent thick as ever. “Business or social?”

  “Bit of both, really,” Del said, stepping inside. “Viktor wants to see you at the hotel. Got a project—something about the Mugger Bots.”

  Seb arched a brow. “Thought he’d be talking that over with Mikal.”

  “He might be. Mikal will probably be there,” Del said, watching Seb return to the stove. “But you know how it is. Viktor probably wants your take first. Mikal’s crazy, you know that.”

  Seb smirked and turned the gas back on. The warm, earthy aroma filled the kitchen again. Del closed his eyes and breathed deeply, visibly impressed.

  “Man... you can cook,” Del said, almost wistful.

  Seb slid the tortilla onto a plate and added the salad. “Want one? This one's done.”

  Del hesitated, then smiled. “ Please?”

  “Sure, have this one,” Seb said, handing him the plate.

  Del took a bite. His eyes widened. “This is good!”

  Seb watched him eat, a flicker of pride surfacing. Cooking was an art. You took raw, ordinary things and made them sing. Watching someone enjoy it was like watching someone admire a painting—something you created with your hands and your time.

  They sat at the small kitchen table, the silence almost companionable. For a moment, it felt normal—just two men sharing breakfast.

  But beneath it all, the tension hummed.

  Del chewed slowly, unsure if this would be the last time they sat across from each other like this. He hoped not. But if Viktor gave the order… he'd do what had to be done. Regret and all.