Neville grabbed his camera and started snapping photos from different angles. The soft click-click-click was satisfying, like proof he hadn’t completely lost control of his life.

He switched to his light brain and took a few more shots from different angles—just for reference, or just to document this one successful, edible attempt. Maybe he would look back on this later and remember that, occasionally, he could make things go right.

The photos from the camera would need time to develop, so he carefully tucked the small prints, still blank, into his pocket. They would probably finish forming when he got back to his workstation.

Neville hurriedly ran through his final preparations, then changed into work clothes. He straightened his collar, checked the mirror. He made sure he would look professional. He double-checked if he had everything he needed.

Then he checked his expression in the mirror, making sure to keep his expression in check. After grabbing the lunchboxes, he went out of the dormitory, and the door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss.

...

The secretarial department was like a madhouse today. People streamed through the corridors, voices overlapping in a constant hum of chatter and footsteps. Neville weaved through the crowd, both lunchboxes clutched tight against his chest like fragile treasures.

When he reached his workstation, the area was practically deserted. Iris and Sarah’s desks were empty; they couldn’t even take a moment to sit down.

Great. Just great. Now, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for taking a few hours off just for being ’tired’.

He set his own lunchbox on the desk, then gripped Grayson’s tighter and made his way toward Bryan’s workstation. In his hurry, he didn’t even notice one of the developing photos—the black-and-white aesthetic of his food-swamp side by side with the one made with the earth’s ingredients—slipped from his pocket and fluttered, unnoticed, to the floor near his desk.

He spotted Bryan sitting at his desk, reviewing something on the three holographic displays hovering in front of him. He had his usual, perfect smiling expression on his face that gave absolutely nothing away.

Bryan glanced up as he noticed Neville approaching.

"Hope, what are you doing here so early? I heard you would clock in by mid-day. Sarah said you weren’t feeling well?"

"Just tired," Neville said quickly. "I’m fine now. Uh—this is Mr. Maxwell’s lunch."

He pushed the lunchbox forward like a peace offering. Or a tiny, heavily-plated shield.

Bryan’s gaze dropped from the steel container to Neville’s face. There was something on his expression—amusement, maybe, or a terrifyingly sharp curiosity.

"You can already provide lunch?"

"Yes. I—uh—Mr. Maxwell introduced me to a regular place to order ingredients, so I don’t have to run around mindlessly to find stuff every day anymore." Neville rattled off, desperately trying to sound professional. "I made extra since I haven’t been able to send over the breakfast meal. Just... if there’s any weird reaction, please make a note of it, because it might be an unknown allergic reaction. And also please give me a copy of the feedback later so I can, uh, adjust things to suit Mr. Maxwell’s tastes."

The words tumbled out way too fast for Neville could feel the heat climbing up his neck.

"How thoughtful." Bryan accepted the lunchbox, still smiling, his eyes unreadable, but clearly had a teasing note. "I’ll make sure he gets it."

"Thanks. I should—uh, I’ve got work to catch up on. So. Yeah."

Neville turned to flee, already halfway to escape when Bryan’s voice stopped him.

"Hope?"

"Yes?"

"Is everything alright between you and Mr. Maxwell?"

The question was offhanded and casual, but Neville heard the genuine, perceptive concern underneath. Of course, Bryan would notice something was off. He was like a bloodhound for awkward moments.

Did my face give it away? Or did Grayson say something? Maybe Grayson was bothered because I slammed his hovercar door in his face?

"Everything’s fine! Why would anything be wrong?" Neville replied, but came out sounding too bright—a dead giveaway. "We’re all people of our own professions, have professional relationships, and are professional at work. Anyway, I should go now, I left my lunch out in the open."

He didn’t wait for a response. He practically bolted; he didn’t stop until he reached his workstation.

Bryan watched him leave with a thoughtful expression and a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then he looked down at the innocent-looking steel lunchbox in his hands and shook his head slowly, sighing.

"Young people these days," he murmured, deeply troubled before he finally turned to move toward the inner office.

Neville made it back to his workstation without further incidents. The relief made his knees weak. He slumped into his chair and let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

The worst was over.

The lunchbox had been delivered.

Mission accomplished.

He could now focus on work and pretend that yesterday had never happened.

Just clear your mind and work.

His light brain pinged with the workload he missed during the morning shift. Neville pulled up the interface, scanning through the list. Standard secretarial tasks—organizing files, preparing reports, scheduling meetings. Nothing too complicated, which was perfect considering his brain still felt like it was muddle-headed and coated in fine panic dust.

He had barely started the first task when voices rose from somewhere nearby.

"Oh my god, look at this!"

"Wait—no way."

"Did he make that? It can’t be!"

Neville froze mid-gesture, head panning in the direction. A small crowd had gathered near his desk—Sarah, Alia, and a few other secretaries. They were surrounded by something on the floor, their expressions ranging from shocked to delighted to absolutely gleeful.

He felt his stomach drop out of his body and onto the floor with a dull thud.

Oh no.

A familiar voice appeared right at his elbow, smooth and utterly composed. "Hope, I think you dropped something."

Neville nearly jumped out of his chair.

When did Bryan get here? How did he move that fast? Is he a ninja?

Neville slipped past the crowd and caught full sight of what they were looking at.

It seemed to be a photo that he took with him.

It had finished developing.

It was a photo showing both lunchboxes: the appetizingly perfect Earth version of the stirfry next to the dark, sorrowful plate of gray-black mash and swamp stir-fry. It was side by side on the counter like a couple in an advertisement.

Neville’s brain flatlined.

When he looked up, everyone’s eyes were shining, faces glowing with curiosity and way too much excitement for a picture of food.

Great. Just great. How am I going to save myself from this?