Laz moved quietly through the wide, opulent kitchen of the hotel suite. The space was large enough to host a dinner party, yet tonight it felt small, intimate, like a sacred place where he could be useful. Cooking helped him think. And tonight, he needed clarity.
He pulled out a selection of vegetables from the fridge—some greens, mushrooms, onions, a ripe tomato—and started slicing them with practiced ease. His thoughts wandered back to Frida. She was asleep now, or at least resting. Her body needed time to recover from the fever, the emotional trauma, and the chaos of everything that had unfolded. She needed warmth, safety, and nourishment.
He tossed the vegetables into a skillet with a splash of olive oil and seasoning. The sound of the sizzle gave him a strange sense of calm. It was like music compared to the gunshots, explosions, and screams that usually filled his nights. This moment of peace was rare, and fleeting.
