The diner was small and unassuming, tucked into the corner of a quiet street. It had that faded charm of a place that had been around forever—checkered black-and-white tiles on the floor, a row of red vinyl stools at the counter, and a jukebox in the corner that didn't work anymore but stayed there for nostalgia's sake. The air smelled like burnt coffee and bacon grease, and the hum of the fluorescent lights blended with the low murmur of conversation from the handful of customers scattered at the booths.
Adrian sat in the corner, hunched over a plate of waffles drenched in syrup. He hadn't even asked for the syrup, but when the waitress—an older woman with gray hair pinned into a loose bun—plopped the plate in front of him, he didn't complain. He didn't say anything, actually. Just nodded stiffly and dug in like a man possessed.
The first bite almost broke him.
The waffle was warm, buttery, and impossibly soft, the syrup pooling in the cracks like liquid gold. Adrian's throat tightened as he chewed, and he had to stop himself from sobbing right there at the table. Two years. Two years of tasteless paste, gritty nutrient bars, and whatever slop Cadmus decided to pump into his stomach through a tube. Two years of surviving, not living.
Now, here he was, eating a real meal. His first meal. The contrast was so stark it almost felt like a cruel joke. His hands trembled as he cut another piece of waffle with his fork.
"You okay, hon?" the waitress asked, standing by his table with a coffee pot in hand. Her name tag read Dolores, and her voice had the kind of roughness that came from years of yelling over loud kitchens and chain-smoking on breaks.
Adrian froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He glanced up at her, quickly swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he said, his voice scratchy. "Fine. Just… hungry."
"You look like you haven't eaten in a while," she said, pouring coffee into the brown mug in front of him.
"You could say that," Adrian muttered, his gaze dropping back to his plate.
She didn't press him, just nodded and moved back toward the counter, calling over her shoulder, "Let me know if you need more syrup, hon."
Adrian let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His stomach growled, and he tore into the waffles again, shoveling bites into his mouth so fast he barely had time to taste them. He didn't care. He needed this. Needed something to remind him that he was human, that there was a world outside the walls of Cadmus.
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Half an hour later, Adrian leaned back in the booth, staring at his empty plate. He hadn't just cleaned it—he'd practically licked it spotless. The dull ache of hunger in his stomach had faded, replaced by the unfamiliar sensation of fullness. It felt… good.
But now came the hard part.
Dolores came back around, her hands on her hips. "How was it?" she asked.
"Good," Adrian said, sitting up straighter. "Really good."
She smiled faintly. "Glad to hear it. That'll be $8.50."
"Uh…"
"You don't have the money, do you?" Dolores asked flatly, crossing her arms.
Adrian winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dolores sighed, shaking her head. "I should've known. You've got that 'ran out of luck' look about you."
"I can work it off," Adrian said quickly, leaning forward. "I'll clean, wash dishes, whatever you need. Just… don't call anyone. Please."
She eyed him for a moment, her gaze sharp and appraising. Adrian held his breath, his fists clenched under the table.
Finally, she shrugged. "Fine. Sink's in the back. You're on dish duty until closing."
Adrian exhaled, relief washing over him. "Thank you," he said, sliding out of the booth.
Dolores smirked faintly. "Don't thank me yet, kid. You haven't seen how bad the grease trap is."
The back of the diner was hot and cramped, the air thick with steam and the lingering smell of fried food. Adrian stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing plates and pans under scalding water. His hands ached, but compared to the pain he'd endured in Cadmus, it was nothing. He scrubbed with single-minded focus, grateful for the monotony.
Dolores popped her head into the kitchen halfway through. "You got a name, kid?"
"Adrian," he said without looking up.
"Well, Adrian," she said, her tone dry, "you missed a spot on that pan."
He glanced down and gritted his teeth. "Right."
Adrian rinsed the last greasy plate, letting the scalding water run over his hands until they were red and raw. Closing time had come and gone, and Dolores hovered near the kitchen door, her sharp green eyes watching him like a hawk.
"Alright, kid, that's it," she said, tossing a stained dish towel onto the counter. "Time's up. You got your free meal, and I let you work it off. Now hit the road."
Adrian dried his hands slowly, looking calm on the surface, though his mind raced. He'd planned every step leading up to this moment. He hadn't stumbled into this diner by accident. No, he'd picked it for a reason.
"You're not gonna let me use the bathroom first, are you?"
Dolores crossed her arms, unimpressed. "You got five minutes, tops."
He slipped into the bathroom, the door creaking shut behind him. The space was tiny and smelled faintly of bleach, with cracked tiles and a flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. Adrian turned the sink on, letting the water run as he leaned against the mirror, taking a deep breath.
These shitty diners, he thought, always have two lives.
During the day, it was a place for cheap coffee and waffles, regular people stopping by on their way to work or killing time between shifts. But after hours? That's when the real business started. Places like this were unofficial safe zones for the underground world—a neutral meeting spot where managers, fighters, and all the low-level scum who couldn't afford the fancy restaurants in mob movies gathered to talk shop and cut deals.
This particular diner had a reputation. Adrian knew because he'd been here before—years ago, back when his life had first fallen apart. He remembered the night vividly. He'd been starving, desperate, and foolish enough to try robbing some rookie fighter outside the diner. The fight had been messy. Adrian had fought like an animal, clawing, biting, and kicking until he'd managed to win.
Lou had been there that night. Lou, the slick-talking manager who'd seen potential in Adrian's dirty tactics and raw brutality. Lou, who used Adrian as a pawn to climb the underground fighting scene's ranks, discarding him once he no longer needed him.
Adrian gritted his teeth, his reflection sneering back at him. You used me to rise to the top, Lou. Now it's my turn to climb.
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Author's Note:
If you'd like to read ahead or support my writing, you can check out my P@treon atP@treon.com/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading my story means the world to me, and I deeply appreciate your support in any form. Thank you!