The smell of garlic fried rice drifted through the apartment before the first bell rang across Elandra. Inigo had been up since dawn, rice drained and drying in a shallow bowl, garlic sweating gently in oil until the edges just blushed. He tipped the grains into the pan and worked them with a wooden spatula, scattering the rice so each grain caught the heat, the hiss and pop as familiar as the fryer at Mcronald's. Comforting. Grounding.
Steam curled from the kettle. Two chipped cups waited—tea for Lyra, bitter coffee for him, dark as the cast‑iron pan. He cracked two eggs with one hand, let them frill at the edges, then slid them over the rice and folded the yolks in, streaks of gold marbling the white. A handful of chopped scallions, a clatter of plates, and the most important pre‑mission ritual in two worlds was almost complete.
