Location: Ashwick Corridors — Muchachos Restaurant — Kitchen — One Week Later
The kitchen was a cathedral of steam and noise.
Pots clanged against stainless steel. Knives chopped in rhythms that never quite synced. The air was thick with the smell of frying masa, simmering pork, and the sharp bite of onion tears. A radio hung from a shelf near the back, its speakers crackling with corridos that no one listened to and everyone hummed.
Elijah stood at the sink.
His apron was stained—brown, red, yellow—the colors of a hundred meals that had passed through his hands. His gloves were wet. His arms were wet. His face—Diego's face—shone with sweat and the particular exhaustion of a man who had been standing in the same spot for six hours.
Dishes, he thought. I climbed mountains. I crossed borders. I survived the Freakshow, the Hollow, the Morrecca, the rings.
And now I'm washing dishes.
He scraped a plate. The spatula was dull, but the crusted beans came off anyway.
Ever since I acquired the Astraseal, there's been a thirst in my bones. A hunger for the top. For control. For the kind of power that makes other men lower their eyes.
But Andreas—clever, paranoid Andreas—insisted I earn my way. No shortcuts. No favors. Just sweat and soap and the slow, grinding climb from the bottom.
And here I am.
At the bottom.
He set the plate in the drying rack.
Another appeared in its place.
---
The dishwasher before him had been a kid named Beto.
Seventeen. Thin. A nervous twitch in his left eye. He had lasted three days before the heat and the pressure and the shouting had driven him out the back door, his apron still tied, his gloves still on.
Elijah had lasted a week.
Not because I'm stronger, he thought. Because I've been through worse.
The Epsilon program. The orrhion chip. Azaqor's game. The Severance.
Washing dishes is just another kind of torture. A gentler one.
He scraped another plate.
---
The head chef's name was Hector.
He was fifty, maybe, with a belly that strained against his stained white coat and arms that had been thickened by decades of lifting pots that weighed more than children. His mustache was thick, gray, flecked with bits of cilantro. His voice was a rasp—the kind of voice that came from shouting over griddles and inhaling smoke.
"Oye, Diego!"
He pointed at a stack of tortillas.
"You call that a stack? It's leaning! It's going to fall! Fix it!"
Elijah's hand—gloved, wet—reached out.
He straightened the stack.
"Better," Hector grunted.
He turned back to the griddle.
"Newbie," he muttered. "Always newbies."
---
The other cooks watched.
There was Miguel, who had been at Muchachos for twelve years and never missed a shift. His face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes missed nothing. He chopped onions with the speed of a man who had given up on feeling the burn.
There was Rosa, the only woman in the kitchen, her hair tucked under a red bandana, her arms thick as pipes. She stirred a pot of frijoles with one hand and flipped tortillas with the other.
There was Carlos, the youngest, barely twenty, his face still soft, his hands still unmarked by the kind of burns that came from years of reaching into ovens.
They watched Elijah.
They had been watching him all week.
He's fast, Rosa thought. Fast for a newbie.
Too, Miguel thought. Too fast.
I hope he stays, Carlos thought. I need someone to take the night shifts.
---
I found out about Arturo from Andreas. During one of our talks—the probing ones, the ones where he asked me where I learned to fight like that, where I learned to move like that.
I told him I learned it from a coyote. A guide. Someone who led me across the desert when I was sixteen, stranded at the border between Eva and California, with no water and no hope.
He believed me. Or pretended to.
The truth is—
I did research on Diego. The real Diego. Before I took his face.
He was a gig worker. One of those guys who gets hired to offload trucks at the border. Lugging boxes of produce, crates of electronics, bundles of clothes that would end up in thrift stores. The kind of job that pays cash and leaves no records.
It was the perfect cover.
No one expects a dishwashers to know how to break a man's wrist.
---
Hector called out.
"Diego! The tortilla press! It's stuck again!"
Elijah wiped his hands on his apron.
He walked to the press.
The machine was old—its iron surface scarred, its handle worn smooth by decades of palms. The dough was jammed between the plates, a lump of masa that refused to flatten.
The other cooks watched.
Hector crossed his arms.
"You know how to fix it, newbie?"
Elijah's hand reached out.
His fingers found the release lever—a small metal tab that had been painted over so many times it was almost invisible. He pressed.
The plates separated.
The dough fell onto the counter.
"There," he said.
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
Hector stared.
"How did you—"
"I've seen it before. At a restaurant in Fenwick. The same model. Same problem."
Hector grunted.
"Lucky."
"Maybe."
---
The dinner rush came at seven.
Customers filled the booths. Families, couples, old men eating alone. The waiters moved like dancers, balancing trays, shouting orders, weaving between tables without colliding.
Elijah was still at the sink.
His arms ached. His back ached. His feet—inside Diego's worn boots—had gone numb hours ago.
This is the climb, he thought. This is the earning.
Andreas wants to see if I'll break. If I'll quit. If I'll steal.
I won't.
I've been through worse.
And besides—
The thirst is still there. The hunger for the top.
It's in my bones now.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
---
Rosa tapped his shoulder.
"Diego. Hector needs help with the tacos."
Elijah turned.
"What kind?"
"Carne asada. Al pastor. He's behind. The grill is backed up."
Elijah walked to the grill.
The meat sizzled. The fat popped. Hector stood at the center, his face red, his hands moving faster than they should.
"Newbie," he said. "You know how to flip?"
"Yes."
"Then flip."
Elijah picked up the spatula.
It was heavier than it looked. The handle was warm, greasy, worn smooth by a thousand hands. He slid it under a strip of carne asada, lifted, turned.
The meat landed exactly where it was supposed to land.
Hector's eyebrow rose.
"Again."
Elijah flipped again.
"Again."
Another flip.
"Faster."
Elijah's hands moved faster.
The meat sizzled. The fat popped. The other cooks watched.
"Not bad," Hector said. "Not bad for a dishwasher."
He handed Elijah a tortilla.
"Make one. Your way. Let's see what you've got."
--
Elijah's hands moved.
He didn't think about the motion—he just did.
The tortilla lay flat on the griddle. He spooned rice onto the center. Beans. Meat. Salsa. A sprinkle of onions. A dash of cilantro.
He folded.
The taco was not perfect. It was not beautiful. But it was balanced—each ingredient in proportion, each layer visible, each bite promising the same experience as the last.
He placed it on a plate.
Hector stared.
The other cooks stared.
"Carlos," Hector said. "Taste it."
Carlos stepped forward.
He picked up the taco. He bit. He chewed. His eyes widened.
"It's... it's good," he said. "Really good."
"Let me see."
Hector took the taco. He bit. He chewed. His expression didn't change.
Then he nodded.
"Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."
---
The customer was a woman.
She sat at the bar, alone, her hair dark and her eyes tired. She had ordered a taco al pastor—the same taco that Elijah had made. Carlos had delivered it. She had taken a bite.
Her eyes closed.
She chewed.
She swallowed.
"This is the best taco I've had in years," she said.
She looked at Carlos.
"Who made this?"
Carlos pointed at Elijah.
The woman turned.
"You?"
Elijah nodded.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you."
She held up her thumb.
The cooks clapped.
Not loudly. Not enthusiastically. Just... respectfully.
"Not bad, newbie," Miguel said.
"Not bad at all," Rosa agreed.
Hector said nothing.
But he was smiling.
---
A week passed.
The sun rose. The sun set. The dishes piled up and were washed and piled up again. Elijah's arms grew stronger. His back grew harder. His feet stopped going numb.
He learned the names of the regular customers. He learned which waiters were lazy and which were honest. He learned the rhythm of the kitchen—the lull between breakfast and lunch, the chaos of the dinner rush, the slow, exhausted cleanup that followed.
He was still at the bottom.
But the bottom was starting to feel like home.
Then the calls started, he thought. The late-night summons. The whispered instructions.
"Diego, come with me."
"Diego, there's something I need you to carry."
"Diego, don't ask questions."
And I didn't.
Because that's the way it works here.
You earn trust. You prove loyalty. And then, one day, they show you the other side of the business.
---
The room was crowded.
Bunk beds lined the walls, their sheets gray, their pillows flat. Clothes hung from hooks. Shoes—work boots, sneakers, sandals—were piled by the door. The air smelled of sweat and sleep and the faint, sour tang of old beer.
Elijah lay on the bottom bunk.
His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow.
Ba's hand was on his shoulder.
"Hey," Ba said. "Hey, sharp tongue."
His voice was low. Urgent.
"Get up. The boss wants you. There's something you need to do."
Elijah's eyes opened.
Diego's eyes. Brown. Wide. Innocent.
"Now?"
"Now."
Ba's face was grim.
His hand—the one Elijah had crushed a week ago—was wrapped in a bandage. The fingers were still swollen. The wrist was still purple.
"Get dressed," Ba said. "And don't keep him waiting."
Elijah sat up.
His feet found the floor.
The climb, he thought. It's just beginning.
---