By the time they reached the tray return area, the cafeteria had already emptied out considerably.
It wasn't abrupt, the way a room clears after a bell rings. It was more gradual—chairs left vacant one by one, conversations thinning out, footsteps growing farther apart. The people who remained were few, and they shared a certain sameness: those whose movements were slow or careful, and staff members like Alma, people who couldn't fully relax because they might be called away at any moment.
The air had changed, too.
The warmth of cooked food was fading, replaced by something cleaner and sharper. Detergent. Hot water. The faint metallic tang that lingered after dishes had been scrubbed and stacked. It was the smell of things being put away, of a place transitioning from service to maintenance.
Jim placed his tray onto the counter.
The sound—metal against metal—rang out more clearly than he expected, sharp and brief, cutting through the subdued atmosphere.
"Return area…"
He murmured the words to himself, as if testing their weight.
For a moment, he frowned.
"Why does that name sound so awkward?"
Alma was already sorting utensils, her movements efficient and practiced. At his comment, she glanced sideways at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"You're only noticing that now?"
Jim let out a small, embarrassed chuckle and scratched the back of his head. He didn't respond. He wasn't even sure why the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way everything here had names that sounded functional rather than human.
Before either of them could say more, the cafeteria lady passed by with a small cart.
Her sleeves were rolled up high, exposing her forearms. There were still faint water droplets clinging to her skin, catching the overhead lights. She had clearly just finished washing dishes, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who had done this work for years.
"What you were talking about just now,"
she said suddenly, without preamble,
"that was Ryan and Null, wasn't it?"
Jim blinked.
The question caught him off guard, not because it was invasive, but because of how casually it had been asked—as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Yes,"
he answered after a brief pause, nodding almost reflexively.
The woman stopped pushing the cart.
She looked at them, really looked at them, and something in her expression softened. The lines around her eyes relaxed, and the professional neutrality she wore while working gave way to something warmer, more personal.
"There aren't many kids their age in the medical district,"
she said, her tone steady but gentle.
"Most of the people here are either much older, or… much busier."
She hesitated for just a fraction of a second before continuing.
"Those two…"
Her voice lowered slightly.
"They've had hard lives."
The words themselves were simple. Almost plain.
But they landed with surprising weight.
Jim felt it in his chest, like something settling there. He opened his mouth, intending to say something—anything—but no words came out. He didn't know what the correct response was. Agreement felt inadequate. Silence felt cowardly.
Before he could decide, the woman spoke again.
"Helping them feel a little brighter,"
she said,
"that's a good thing."
As she spoke, she rolled her sleeves up again, a small but deliberate gesture, as if marking a decision. There was no hesitation in her movements now.
"Since I overheard it,"
she added, already turning away,
"I'll help you out."
Jim barely had time to register what was happening before she disappeared into the kitchen.
"I'll take care of the egg custard. I'll handle the grilled meat too,"
her voice called out from inside, slightly muffled by the walls.
"As for cake, you'll need to go to a dessert shop. We don't have the equipment for that here."
"R—really?"
Jim finally found his voice, surprise breaking through his composure.
"That's… that's okay?"
"All right, all right,"
she replied immediately, her tone brisk but not unkind.
"Just wait a bit."
Jim stood there, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what to do with himself.
"…Thank you,"
he said quietly, almost to the floor.
Alma glanced at him again. She didn't comment. She simply nodded once, lightly, as if acknowledging something that didn't need to be said aloud.
—
After leaving the cafeteria, Jim headed toward town alone.
The difference was immediate.
The medical district had its own kind of quiet—not silence, but restraint. Sounds were muted, controlled, filtered through layers of regulation and routine. Outside, that pressure lifted.
The air felt looser.
He could hear voices now. Casual conversation drifting past. The uneven rhythm of footsteps. A child's laughter, sharp and unfiltered, slicing briefly through the background noise before fading again. Somewhere nearby, music played from inside a shop, the melody slightly distorted by distance and glass.
It felt… alive.
The dessert shop was just around the corner.
Its glass display window was brightly lit, almost glowing compared to the surrounding buildings. Inside, rows of pastries were arranged with careful precision. Each one was distinct—different shapes, different colors, different textures. Nothing looked rushed or careless. Everything looked like it had been made with intention.
Jim stopped just outside the entrance.
"So many…"
The word slipped out before he realized he'd spoken.
And then it hit him.
He had no idea what he was supposed to choose.
The realization wasn't dramatic. It was quiet, almost embarrassing. He'd come this far without a plan, relying entirely on momentum.
When he stepped inside, warmth enveloped him immediately.
Not just physical warmth, but sweetness. The smell of cream and sugar filled the air, thick enough to cling to his senses. It was comforting—and strangely unsettling. Like being reminded of something he wasn't sure he was allowed to want.
A clerk noticed him right away and approached with a practiced smile.
"Would you like a recommendation?"
"Uh… yeah,"
Jim answered, nodding a bit too quickly.
He listened as the clerk spoke, pointing out different items, explaining flavors and textures. Jim nodded along, but his attention kept drifting. His eyes moved from tray to tray, lingering on this cake, then that pastry.
Everything looked good.
And that was the problem.
The more options he saw, the more uncertain he felt. He wasn't choosing for himself. That made it harder. The weight of that responsibility pressed down on him in a way he hadn't expected.
In the end, he made his selection almost entirely on instinct.
At the register, he looked at the number displayed on the screen.
For a second, he said nothing.
Fifty points.
"…"
He let out a silent sigh.
That amount translated automatically in his head.
Five burger meals.
When the bag was handed to him, he took it with both hands and glanced down. The weight felt heavier than it should have.
It did hurt. He couldn't deny that.
But beneath that was something else—a feeling that he'd already crossed a line. That this wasn't something he could undo by pretending it didn't matter.
"Whatever,"
he muttered under his breath.
"If it's for taking the first step with Null, it can't be helped."
Someone nearby caught the words and glanced over, offering a knowing smile. The look was familiar, the kind people gave when they thought they understood a situation without needing details.
Jim didn't notice.
He just adjusted his grip on the bag and headed back, walking a little faster than before.
—
By the time he returned to the cafeteria, everything was ready.
Two food containers sat neatly on the table. Steam curled gently from beneath their lids, dissipating into the air.
"The grilled meat and the egg custard are in there,"
the cafeteria lady said.
"The temperature's just right. Don't shake them."
She reached under the counter and produced a sturdy insulated bag, handing it to Jim.
"Borrow this."
"Put the cake in there too,"
she added.
"Don't crush it."
Jim accepted the bag quickly, almost reverently.
"Thank you,"
he said again, this time more firmly.
"Really."
She smiled at him, the expression unforced.
"Go on,"
she said.
"Things like this—taking it slow and doing it properly—are always better."
Jim nodded.
He carefully placed the desserts into the insulated bag, his movements slower than usual, more deliberate. He adjusted their positions, making sure nothing pressed too hard against anything else.
When he zipped the bag shut, he checked it once more. Then again.
Only when he was satisfied did he lift it.
And in that moment, it finally became clear to him—
This wasn't just food.
This was the first time he had made a conscious effort, a real preparation, for the sake of getting closer to someone else.