The canteen at Unit Obscura was a strange place.
There were no real cooks—just nutrient dispensers, flavor cartridges, and an automated self-heating counter that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi jail. The lighting was a harsh fluorescent blue, and the chairs were all bolted to the floor, as if someone had once tried to throw them during a food fight.
Ikris stood in line, still half-asleep, holding a metal bowl and staring blankly at the wall screen looping training safety reminders.
He didn't belong here.
Not with soldiers. Not with ex-agents or elemental misfits. He was a flame-wielding CEO's kid pretending to be a soldier in a place full of people who could kill with a breath or vanish without sound.
"Next," barked the dispenser.
Ikris stepped forward. The machine scanned his ID, blinked red once, then dumped a glop of gray stew into his bowl. A puff of steam rose. It smelled vaguely like synthetic chicken and regret.
He sat at the nearest empty table, trying to keep a low profile. But that was nearly impossible with a katana strapped to your back and a literal heat signature five times the average.
A few minutes in, the silence was broken.
Lyssa Aerin dropped her tray across from him with a clatter.
She raised an eyebrow. "You planning to melt your spoon again?"
"That was one time."
"Sure. And the coffee machine exploding yesterday was what—karma?"
He scowled. "It didn't explode. It just… got excited."
"Ikris, the hot water boiled before it left the tube."
"I adjusted the pressure manually."
"You breathed near it."
He opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when someone behind the counter began shouting.
"Who the hell turned the soup kettle to 'incinerate'?!" the staffer yelled, yanking off heatproof gloves.
The smell of charred miso filled the air.
Ikris sank slightly into his chair. "Okay… that one might've been me."
Lyssa smirked. "You're really settling in."
Ten minutes later, the kitchen supervisor—a square-shouldered woman named Officer Parn—strode across the canteen with a glare that could vaporize concrete.
"Igan," she said, holding up a black-and-yellow plastic badge. "You're banned from kitchen tech for a week."
He took the badge.
It read:FIRE HAZARD #1 – DO NOT ALLOW NEAR BOILING WATER
Ikris turned it over in his hands. "Kind of stylish."
Lyssa coughed to hide a laugh.
"Wear it," Parn snapped, "or no food privileges."
He clipped it onto his jacket.
Back in his room that night, Ikris sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the badge where it hung from his wall hook.
He didn't feel like a warrior. Not today. Maybe not ever.
But as silly as it was, it made him feel… real.
Not a weapon. Not a corporate pawn. Not some mystery to be contained.
Just a guy who burnt the soup.
And somehow, that mattered.