First Person: The Dead Calm of Saturday
Saturday arrived with a disconcerting silence. After the whirlwind of my arrival, the escape, the capture, and the surreal transformation, the quiet was almost more unsettling than the chaos. I woke up in the absurdly comfortable bed of my gilded cage, my aching body reminding me that the events of the past few days hadn't been an alcohol-induced nightmare. They were real.
I got up and put on one of the changes of clothes Cecilia and her stylistic assault team had approved. It felt strange. The fabric was too soft, the cut too perfect. It was like wearing someone else's costume. A richer, more elegant person, and probably far less likely to be chased through hallways by security guards.
I looked out the glass balcony. Sunlight gleamed over the academy's immaculate grounds. In the distance, I saw some students heading to training facilities, even on a weekend. Discipline. It was the heartbeat of this place.
My new life as Cecilia Alcott's "pupil" was... boring. I was confined to her suite and the immediately adjacent areas. I had books, a data terminal (with very restricted access, of course), and the company of my own thoughts. For a man accustomed to constant action, it was a form of torture.
Mid-morning, Cecilia entered the small parlor connecting our rooms. She wore a cream-colored day dress that probably cost more than a month of my rent. Her blonde hair was pulled back in an elegant, casual style. She looked relaxed, but her eyes still held that glint of an owner evaluating her most problematic possession.
"Kennedy," she said, her tone that of a woman addressing her butler. "Do you have any useful skills beyond violence and sarcasm?"
"I can recite the alphabet backward and tie a Windsor knot in under twenty seconds," I replied, not looking up from a book on Orimura family history I had found. "Essential survival skills, you know."
She ignored me, a gesture she was perfecting. She walked to a wall console and pressed a button. "Dining service, Alcott here. I wish for lunch." She paused, listening to the reply. Her face soured. "What do you mean the weekend menu is 'fixed soba noodle set'? That is unacceptable! I am a national representative, not a tourist at a roadside stall."
She argued for another minute before cutting the communication with a frustrated sigh. She turned to me. "It seems civilization takes a break on Saturdays at this academy. The personal kitchen staff are off duty."
I saw my chance. An opportunity to do something. To be useful. To take control of a small part of my existence.
"I can cook," I said quietly.
Cecilia stopped and stared at me as if I had grown a second head. "You... cook?" The disbelief in her voice was palpable. It was clear that in her world, men of her social standing did not stoop to such domestic tasks. And men like me, the barbarians, probably ate their food raw straight from the carcass.
"I cook," I confirmed. "In fact, I cook quite well. It's hard to get by on an agent's salary if you only eat out. Unless you wish to face soba noodles, I suggest you let me try."
She looked at me for a long moment, her aristocratic mind grappling with the idea. Curiosity finally won over her snobbery.
"Very well, Kennedy," she said, with a tone of amused condescension. "Show me your... 'useful skill.' The kitchen is through here. But I warn you, if you burn my custom induction stovetop, the bill will be deducted from your... well, your continued existence."
"Deal," I replied, rising from the couch. For the first time in days, I felt a spark of something akin to normalcy.
Third Person: The Agent in his Element
Cecilia's kitchen was less a kitchen and more a culinary laboratory. Stainless steel and chrome appliances, white quartz countertops, and a set of Japanese knives that looked like elite assassin's weapons. Leo stepped into the space, and a transformation occurred.
The tense, cautious man who walked two paces behind her disappeared. In his place, a man of confidence and purpose took command of the space. He moved through the kitchen with an economic grace, opening cabinets, inspecting the pantry, weighing vegetables in his hand. His movements were fluid and precise, the same movements he had used to dismantle guards, but now applied to creation instead of destruction.
Cecilia sat on a high stool by the kitchen island, watching him with her arms crossed. She had expected clumsiness, chaos. Instead, she was watching a master at his craft.
"What will you be preparing, if I may ask?" she inquired, trying to maintain an air of supervision.
"Something simple," Leo replied without looking at her, as he pulled out a couple of chicken breasts, garlic, parsley, and a lemon. "Sometimes, the simplest things are the best. It's called Garlic Chicken with Pasta Aglio e Olio. Comfort food from my world."
She watched in silence as he worked. The way he minced garlic, his fingers sure, the knife a blur of steel. The manner in which he filleted the chicken breasts with a surgeon's precision. The confidence with which he brought a pot of water to a boil, seasoning it with salt without measuring, by pure instinct.
There were no wasted movements. No hesitation. He was in a state of flow, completely absorbed in his task. Cecilia realized she was witnessing the same concentration and efficiency that made him so dangerous, but channeled into something peaceful. The wolf, it seemed, knew how to build a nest as well as hunt.
It was... disconcerting. And strangely attractive.
The kitchen filled with the aroma of garlic sizzling in olive oil, a rich, earthy smell that was a stark contrast to the academy's sterile atmosphere.
"Are you certain that quantity of garlic is prudent?" Cecilia commented, more to make conversation than from actual concern.
"Prudence is for accountants, Miss Alcott," Leo replied, smiling to himself. "Cooking is for the brave."
He finished the pasta, tossing it in the oil with chili flakes and parsley. Simultaneously, he seared the chicken in another pan until the skin was crisp and golden, then finished it with white wine and lemon juice, creating an instant sauce. The entire process took less than twenty minutes.
He plated the meal onto two fine porcelain plates with elegant simplicity. He placed a plate in front of Cecilia. The pasta gleamed, the strands perfectly coated in oil and herbs. The chicken was juicy and golden. The aroma was divine.
"Lunch is served, my lady," he said, with a hint of his old sarcasm.
He sat across from her with his own plate. For the first time, they were seated at the same table as equals, a tacit truce declared by the food he had created.
First Person: The Truce and the Question
Cecilia looked at the plate, then at me, then back at the plate. She picked up her fork with a princess's delicacy, took a single strand of spaghetti, and brought it to her mouth.
I watched her reaction. Her eyes widened slightly. A faint blush appeared on her cheeks. She chewed slowly, then swallowed. She said nothing. She simply took another bite, this time a larger one. And then a piece of chicken.
"It's..." she began, searching for the word. "...adequate."
I smiled. For someone like Cecilia, "adequate" was the equivalent of gushing praise. The fact that she continued to eat with an enthusiasm bordering on the un-aristocratic was all the confirmation I needed.
We ate in silence for several minutes. It wasn't an awkward silence, like the ones we had shared before. It was a softer silence, filled with the sound of cutlery and a mutual curiosity. I had created something she enjoyed. I had established a bridge.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?" she finally asked, breaking the quiet.
"Necessity is the mother of invention," I replied. "And my fridge was often very needy. Besides, it helped me unwind. After a day dealing with the worst humanity has to offer, creating something simple and good... it helps you stay balanced."
She nodded, seeming to accept that answer. "And your family? Your... world?"
"My family is far away. Unreachable," I said, and a hint of melancholy crept into my voice. "And my world... well, you've seen the highlights on the recording. It's noisy, messy, and full of people making bad decisions at parties. But it's my home."
She looked at me, her fork suspended in the air. Curiosity finally overcame her reserve. "How old are you, Mr. Kennedy?"
It was a simple question, but it felt important. It was a key data point. A piece of the puzzle she was trying to assemble.
I looked directly into her eyes. "I'm twenty-three."
Her expression shifted. I saw the calculation in her eyes. Twenty-three. He wasn't the older, experienced man she might have imagined. Nor was he a boy her age. He was young enough to have been at that stupid party, but old enough to have been a federal agent. He was in that strange no-man's-land of early adulthood.
She, a fifteen or sixteen-year-old genius, was processing me anew. Recontextualizing everything she knew about me.
I saw my opportunity. A small crack in her armor of composure. A chance to reclaim a bit of ground, to unbalance her as she had unbalanced me.
I leaned slightly across the table, a mischievous grin forming on my face.
"Why the question?" I said in a low, playful voice. "So you... like older men, huh, Miss Alcott?"
The reaction was instantaneous and glorious.
The blush that was once subtle exploded across her cheeks, a crimson red climbing to her ears. Her eyes widened in surprise and scandal. She dropped her fork, which clattered against the porcelain plate with a loud clink. She jerked her head away, unable to hold my gaze, and became suddenly interested in a non-existent spot on the wall.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about!" she stammered, her British accent growing more pronounced with nervousness. "It was a simple question of curiosity! Don't imply such... impertinences!"
I let out a laugh. Not a sarcastic or bitter laugh, but a genuine, relaxed laugh. The first in a long time.
"Easy," I told her, raising my hands in a gesture of peace. "It's a joke. A reference to a popular song from my world. Don't take it to heart."
She didn't reply. She simply picked up her fork and continued eating her pasta with fierce concentration, as if it were the most important task in the world. But the blush on her cheeks remained for the rest of the meal.
We finished in silence, but the air between us had shifted again. I had shown her another side of me. And I had shown her that even though she held the leash, I still had a few tricks up my sleeve. I could be the prisoner, the pupil, the barbarian. But I was also the chef. And I was the man who could make the unshakeable Cecilia Alcott blush with a single phrase.
The balance of power in our strange relationship was far more delicate than either of us had thought. And the idea, for some reason, felt far less terrible than it had the day before.