Neville fired up the stove and poured a bit of oil into the pan. The moment the meat hit the hot surface, it hissed—loud, sizzling, filling the kitchen with that rich, savory aroma—thankfully, it seemed to smell like genuine food.

Mushrooms next. They darkened fast, their edges curling as they cooked down.

The Cyano mushrooms released moisture, forming a glossy sauce pooling at the bottom of the meat. He sprinkled in salt, pepper (from the system mall), and a few questionable "spices" that bore only a passing resemblance to Earth ingredients—and kept stirring.

Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.

Then the Ananas Padma fruit went on the cutting board next. He sliced it into bite-sized chunks, the fruit releasing a sweet-tart scent that was the only thing in this kitchen not trying to depress him, and made his stomach growl. It would serve as a palate cleanser, something light to balance the heavy stuff.

He plated the stir-fry and stepped back to take a look at his work.

"Ugh," he muttered to himself, the sigh escaping him heavy and audible.

By Earth standards... yeah, it looked absolutely miserable. The colors were all wrong—too dark, too monochromatic. The mushrooms had dyed everything this murky burgundy, like swamp water pretending to be food.

I really want to add rice, Neville thought miserably.

But rice didn’t seem to exist here. Or if it did, it wasn’t in this facility, and he wouldn’t waste his points trying to track it down. The closest substitute was Solanum—the black version of potatoes.

Everything about them was black, from skin to flesh, which had initially convinced the first settlers that they were poisonous and inedible. Turns out they were fine, just deeply, tragically aesthetically challenged. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Honestly, he couldn’t blame those people too.

Neville grabbed a few Solanums and peeled them quickly. He cut them into chunks and tossed them into a pot of boiling water. While they were boiling, he reached for the Lait, the milk of the interstellar era. It was slightly darker and thicker than Earth’s milk.

It’ll probably work for mashed potatoes, he thought, though I have to pray to whatever gods available in this world to know for sure if it would work.

Once the Solanums were soft enough, he drained them, added Lait and a generous spoon of Makan (butter). Then he went to work with a masher he had splurged on from the system mall.

The result? A pile of gray-black mashed potatoes.

He stared at the bowl, then at the plate, which now had a dark, muddy stir-fry next to a mound of coal-colored mashed potatoes. When placed together, it looked like something a prison cafeteria would serve on a particularly depressing day.

"Perfect," he deadpanned, staring at his creation. "Looks like I’m eating a nightmare tonight."

For garnish, he chopped some Apium—the yellow version of parsley. Its leaves were significantly smaller than the Earth kind. After chopping it into even smaller pieces, he sprinkled it on top of the mashed potatoes. The bright chopped leaves stood out like tiny yellow stars against the dark sludge.

Neville stared at the completed dish. It looked like something that would prompt health inspectors to shut down a restaurant in sheer disbelief, but at least it smelled decent.

I can’t possibly serve this to Grayson, right?

The thought hit him with the force of a moral responsibility.

There was only one obvious answer—there’s no way in hell I would.

This culinary abomination couldn’t tarnish Grayson’s clear eyes. With a resigned sigh, Neville purchased another set of ingredients from the system mall. It seemed like he could only use proper Earth ingredients for Grayson’s share.

Because I’m a good person? No, because I’m a pathetic wreck trying to buy back some dignity.

Then, he started over.

This time, the process was familiar, comforting. Real pork and beef, actual mushrooms, and normal potatoes. The stir-fry came together smoothly and quickly, the colors rich and appetizing. The mashed potatoes turned out creamy-white, exactly as they should be. He added fresh, vivid green parsley on top, the color a stark and welcome contrast to the other plate.

Much better.

As he plated both versions of the meal side by side, Neville’s thoughts drifted back to Grayson. The uncomfortable feeling returned to his chest, twisting like a rusty key.

Remembering everything from yesterday made him feel guilty.

Finally admitting what that fluttering feeling meant every time Grayson looked at him had been bad enough. But then, misreading the man completely? Slamming an expensive hovercar door in Grayson’s face over his own delusional interpretations?

Yeah, that was next-level mortifying. He could practically hear the thwump of the door echoing in his memory.

Neville ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"How the hell am I supposed to face him after that?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned on the counter.

Even thinking about delivering this food to Grayson made his stomach sink. He wasn’t sure he could look Grayson in the eye again—at least not without wanting to dig a hole and disappear into it from sheer awkwardness.

Neville frowned at the lunchboxes for a full agonizing minute before making up his mind.

"Safety first," he murmured.

If the worst happened, if he completely chickened out at the last minute or, worse, if Grayson refused to accept the lunch, he could just hand it to Bryan instead. As Grayson’s Chief Secretary, surely Bryan was probably obligated to pass it along.

Cowardly? Absolutely.

Undignified? Yes. But his dignity had already taken enough hits this week. Frankly, he was out of emotional bandwidth.

He glanced at the time. Still early, but he needed to get moving if he wanted to arrive by mid-morning and not look like he had sprinted there in a panic.

The lunchboxes needed containers.

Since the interstellar era had a weird obsession with metals—everything was metal or at least had metal components—he had invested in proper steel lunchboxes with an insulator. They were sturdy, practically designed, and retained heat well. They fit right in with the interstellar aesthetic.

He packed the food carefully: One was for his lunch, the other for Grayson.

Neville stepped back to admire his handiwork, which was side by side on the counter. It was neat and organized. A momentary pride swelled in his chest.

"Not bad," He said. I should document this.