“Nope.”
“Then we shall have lamb burgers,” Ben declares with an almost-manic glee. “Until we burst.”
* * *
The railcar shudders to life beneath us. It’s not the sleek, whisper-quiet transit of the high-tier sectors; this thing is old, industrial. It smells like rust and electric ozone, and, when Ben leans back against the worn leather seat, he looks absurdly out of place.
I drag my gaze to the world outside. The tunnels give way to the half city, the part of the metropolis that’s neither entirely below nor fully above.
We pass through a market that’s sprawled into the tunnels, vendors selling hot skewers of meat over makeshift coal pits, the air thick with spices and burning fat. Ben barely glances at it, but I see everything: the counterfeit fruit dyed to look fresh, the jars of synthetically grown honey glistening like liquid amber, and the woman crouched behind her stall sewing new soles onto old shoes with fishing wire.
Beyond the market, we pass an old theater—a relic from before the Flesh Wars, its grand marquee now scrawled over with phosphorescent graffiti.
Then the tunnels open again, and the sky—God, thesky—slams into me. It literally never gets old.
I glance at Ben, but he’s still staring ahead, unbothered by the world shifting around him.
The lamb restaurant is tucked away in a narrow alley just off the main thoroughfare. The kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. Inside, everything smells like roasting meat. The tables are small, crowded together, and mismatched, with chairs that wobble in a way that feels more precarious than charming. Ben swivels around, taking it all in with a kind of touristic wonder, as if he’s never set foot in a place like this before—and he probably hasn’t. Underground, this would be considered fine dining. But even with only two weeks’ distance, I see this is essentially a ghetto for the underground community aboveground.
The host leads us to a private dining room without my asking. It’s like he senses something volatile about us—Ben especially—and decides it’s best to put us behind a closed door. Ben steps inside first and brushes past me, his arm grazing mine, and I know it is intentional.
The waiter closes the swinging doors with a quiet finality, sealing us in. Suddenly, everything feels hushed, exclusive, and faintly dangerous.
I’m just about to make some joke about the romantic-murder-room vibe when I see another being pushed out of the side entrance, tablet in hand.
He looks nervous as all hell.
Ben doesn’t even glance at the menu.
“Lamb burgers,” he says. “Two. Extra sauce.”
He pauses.
“Rare.”
The server gives a tiny nod and vanishes without a word.
I move toward a chair across from Ben, but before I can even fully commit, his hand catches my wrist.
“Here,” he says, guiding me down beside him instead. His touch is firm, but not rough. Decisive. Like six inches of space is six inches too many.
He sits so close, our thighs touch. And this I also know is intentional.
When the food arrives, he’s on it before the server can fully set the plate down.
He grabs the burger and takes a bite so aggressive, I flinch. The sound is messy, wet—a low, satisfied growl escaping him as juice drips down the side of his hand.
His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the color. His eyes are black, starved, and locked on the next bite like he’s fighting the urge to devour the entire table.
I sit still, my own food untouched, a little transfixed at the change in him.
“Does food always taste like this?” he asks, voice unsteady, wild.
He finishes the first burger in four frantic bites and signals the waiter without breaking eye contact with me. His eyes are glassy, glittering with a feverish gleam. Too bright. Too sharp.
“I want more,” he says to no one in particular.
A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. Tiny beads form on his upper lip. He reaches for his drink with a slight tremble in his hand, then downs it in a few heavy gulps.
