Mirshad didn't arrive in gold or with guards. Just a dusty smile… and a group of boys who once shared his silence, his bruises, his victories. The restaurant? Small. Humble. But sacred now. Their table? A throne of memories. He sat among them, pulling a chair like nothing had changed—because in his heart, it hadn't.
One friend tossed him a plate. "Still need extra spice like before?" Mirshad chuckled. "More than ever." Another joked, "And this face? Bro, it's illegal to look this perfect." They laughed. Loud. Free. Like the world wasn't watching. But it was.
From the moment he entered, the city breathed in. Whispers started on street corners. Phones lifted. Cameras rolled. But voices? Not a single soul screamed. Because how do you scream when your heart is stunned?
They had seen him on screens — flying, fighting, saving. But now… he was real. A girl whispered to her sister, "That's him. That's MRD… in our city." A shopkeeper whispered, "He ate here. With us." They didn't step forward. They didn't interrupt. They stood — like a nation at attention. Because his presence was louder than any cheer.
Inside the restaurant, the staff stood frozen. The chefs stopped cooking. Waiters stood still. One young waitress gripped the kitchen wall, whispering, "I used to pray he was real. I didn't know he was born here." Another server said, wiping his hands, "He's not eating food. He's feeding this city with peace."
Back at the table, Mirshad looked around. Every face was familiar. Every laugh untouched by time. One friend leaned in, "You thought we wouldn't recognize you?" "You did?" "Mirshad whispered". Another said, "We knew you before the world did. You're MRD to them — but to us, you're still the guy who cried when we lost the finals."
Suddenly — a voice, "And the guy who used to fight for the last piece of fried chicken." They turned. His loudest, wildest friend. The missing piece. He walked in fast. "You bastard. You really came back?" He grabbed Mirshad in a hug that pulled seven years into one moment. No titles. No powers. Just brotherhood.
Outside — the crowd grew. Thousands now. But still… no noise. Only eyes. Only awe. Police arrived. Not with sirens — with salutes. They formed a respectful circle. No barricades. No shouting. Just honor. Mothers lifted their children onto shoulders. "You will tell your children… that you saw him." As Mirshad picked up his spoon, he looked up — through the window. He saw his people. His city. And they saw him. Not the warrior. Not the god. Just their own. He whispered to himself, "They remembered." And finally… he took a bite.