Elias Kael wiped the edge of the plate clean with practiced precision, his brow furrowing as he positioned the last tender piece of calamari over the whipped potatoes. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals as the dish sat, an unspoken testament to hours of prep work and perfectionism. For all the effort, Elias barely looked at it as he pushed the plate to the counter.
"Order up," he said with a voice that carried no weight, no excitement.
"Kael," a voice called from the kitchen doorway, heavy with familiarity. Elias's boss stepped into view, arms crossed and a tired smile plastered on his face. He was a big man, a fixture of the restaurant, dressed in his usual sharp white coat stained with a hint of beet reduction. "That's the last one for the night."
Elias glanced at the clock. 6:47 p.m. Early.
"You're off," the man continued. "Go home. Enjoy yourself. Don't think I forgot it's your birthday."
The words landed softly, but Elias felt them settle heavy in his chest.
"Lucky me," Elias muttered, forcing a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. He unhooked his apron, folding it with quiet care before hanging it on the back wall. A soft clink sounded as he pulled his watch from the nearby counter and slid it over his wrist.
"Don't go drowning yourself in gloom tonight, Kael," his boss added, with the same worn-out encouragement Elias had heard every year. "You've earned some peace."
Elias didn't respond, letting the door swing shut behind him as he stepped into the back alley. The chill hit him first—not cold enough to bite, but enough to remind him the season was shifting. The air still carried hints of ozone and the metallic tang of construction dust. The city was always rebuilding these days.
He walked with his head low, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, letting the hum of distant traffic and faint voices blur together in the background. Every now and then, the static rumble of repair drones buzzed overhead, their silhouettes flickering briefly against the dying twilight.
As he moved through the streets, Elias's gaze flickered to the scars the city still bore—buildings covered in steel exoskeletons, construction tarps fluttering like banners, faint scorch marks blackened against concrete walls. A billboard loomed large on the corner, its bright lights unmistakable against the gloom.
Protect Our World. Enlist Today.
The image was dynamic, its motion crisp and flawless. A soldier—no, Elara—charged forward, exosuit gleaming under an artificial sun. Her blade cut clean through the snarling form of a massive wolf-like alien creature. The moment froze on impact, the alien split in half, dissolving into dark mist. The words flashed at the bottom again:
Be a Hero. Protect Prime Planet.
Elara Cross. His childhood friend. She looked fierce in her armor, eyes sharp and focused, her name plastered across the screen like a badge of honor. Elias stopped walking for a moment, watching the short looping video as it replayed. The screen shifted, showing a montage of soldiers fighting, saving lives, winning battles. The music soared with orchestral resolve.
Elias turned away before the video could finish. His face darkened, his shoulders tense as he forced himself to keep moving.
"Guess someone had to make it out," he muttered under his breath.
By the time he reached his apartment, the city streets had dimmed. His building stood tall and modern, its polished edges standing in stark contrast to the battered structures only blocks away. Elias let himself in, the door hissing softly as it slid open. The lights came on automatically, spilling a warm glow over the tidy living room and its well-kept furniture.
The place was nice—too nice, maybe, for someone who spent most of his nights reheating leftovers alone. He earned good money as head chef, but the space still felt hollow, too quiet. He set his keys on the counter and slipped out of his shoes, the silence of the apartment wrapping around him like a familiar blanket.
Elias's steps carried him to the far corner of his home, where the walls were lined with old books and digital screens. In the center, atop a narrow shelf surrounded by small keepsakes, sat a framed portrait. The man in the photo stared back at him with the same sharp jawline and distant eyes Elias saw every morning in the mirror.
Elias knelt slowly in front of the shelf, the tension in his shoulders easing as he set a small candle on the ground and lit it with a single strike of a match. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. The room was quiet save for the faint crackle of the flame.
Finally, Elias exhaled and bowed his head. His voice was quiet, but steady.
"Happy birthday, old man," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "I hope you're proud of the mess I've made."
The words lingered in the still air. Elias extinguished the small candle and stood, stretching his shoulders. His father's portrait seemed to watch him as he tidied up the study, placing the candle and matchbox neatly on the shelf. He stared at the portrait one last time before turning away, his steps soft against the polished floor.
In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and rifled through its contents. A few containers of prepped vegetables, some leftover meat, and a carton of milk stared back at him. He frowned. Nothing felt quite right for a proper dinner—not for tonight. After all, it was his birthday, even if he didn't feel much like celebrating.
"Guess I'll make something decent," he muttered to himself, pulling out a bag of greens and a half-empty jar of dressing. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Just after six. Early enough.
As he worked, the hum of the city filtered in through the slightly cracked window above the sink. Construction drones buzzed faintly in the distance, their rhythmic whir a reminder of the world outside still piecing itself back together. He chopped the greens absently, his thoughts drifting, until he realized he was out of bread—and fresh vegetables, for that matter.