Chapter Text
The quiet in Elliot’s room was almost peaceful.
Wire had been speaking gently for nearly an hour, his words tumbling out like marbles across the floor. He’d tried every silly distraction he could think of: telling Elliot about the time he’d locked himself inside the trunk during a mission and had to text Beartrap to bust him out, humming an old Saturday morning cartoon theme completely off-key, even re-enacting Cane’s “epic” six-minute rant about taxes during a car chase. Anything to keep Elliot’s mind away from the pain, the fear.
And somehow, it worked.
The pizza boy’s watery eyes finally softened, lids drooping. His breaths grew heavier, his body sinking into the mattress. Wire hesitated, then carefully pulled the sheet up, tucking him in like a little brother. Nobody outside this room would ever believe him capable of that sort of gentleness, but here? It felt natural.
He lingered for a second, just watching the slow rise and fall of Elliot’s chest. The boy’s face was finally calm.
Good. He needed the rest.
Wire bent down to collect the mess of food he’d dropped earlier—a half loaf of bread, two apples, some rice spilling like sand across the floor, and one onion that kept rolling toward the corner. He snatched it up, stuffed everything back into the crumpled paper bag, and tiptoed toward the door.
The door creaked open.
Wire froze.
Mafioso was there.
His tall frame filled the hallway, shadows stretching behind him like claws. The brim of his fedora covered his eyes, but his grin was unmistakable—sharp, steady, unnervingly wide.
“Uh—boss.” Wire whispered nervously, clutching the bag to his chest like a shield. “He’s out. Finally.”
The grin didn’t move. Mafioso didn’t blink. But something in his stillness made Wire uneasy. The boss wasn’t calm because he was relaxed—he was calm like a predator who had decided not to move just yet.
“How is he?” Mafioso’s voice was low, smooth.
Wire scratched his neck. “Uh… you… you heard most of it, right?”
No reply. Just the grin, gleaming faintly in the light. Then a small nod.
Wire cleared his throat, whispering quickly, “He’s not ready to hear everything. Not tonight. Gonna take time.” His hand twitched into a nervous thumbs-up before he yanked it back down, realizing what he’d just done. “Sorry. Uh—habit. Won’t happen again.”
A creak of wood made Wire glance to the side. He groaned quietly.
There, stacked ridiculously high against the doorframe, were the other henchmen. Cane at the bottom, trying to look dignified while holding up Echo. Echo balancing awkwardly with his headset tilted. And Beartrap perched on top like a giant, grumpy gargoyle.
“Shhh!” Echo hissed, elbowing Beartrap. “Stop breathing so loud!”
“You’re crushing my hat brim,” Cane muttered from below.
The wood groaned. Then gave way.
With the inevitability of bad planning, the tower collapsed.
“Ah—!” Wire yelped, food bag spilling again as Beartrap’s arm smacked him in the shoulder. All four men crashed into the hall in a tangled heap of limbs, groans, and swears.
“Quiet, quiet, QUIET!” Echo wheezed, muffling Beartrap’s groan with his hand.
“Elliot’s gonna—” Wire began in panic.
A hand shot out.
Mafioso’s.
In one smooth movement, the boss caught Wire by the collar with one hand and braced Beartrap’s full bulk with the other. His grip was iron, effortless. He didn’t grunt, didn’t flinch. He simply held them all up like rag dolls.
Wire blinked up at him, stunned. “Thanks, boss. Uh—owe you one. Or ten.” He scrambled upright, pulling the others to their feet like nothing had happened.
The grin stayed, unchanged. Watching.
Wire lowered his voice, glancing at the door. “He’s asleep. Let’s not screw it up.”
The others shuffled awkwardly, pretending the fall hadn’t happened. Cane smoothed his suit. Echo adjusted his headset. Beartrap brushed dust from his ushanka.
“So… what now?” Echo muttered.
“We wait,” Cane suggested, his calm tone back in place.
Wire, however, had already raised the bag of food like a trophy. “I know what we do! We cook. Porridge. Classic, easy, comforting. Food heals everything.”
Echo squinted. “Do you even know how to cook?”
“Of course not,” Wire beamed, marching toward the kitchen. “But there’s a cookbook in there. We’ll figure it out!”
Cane groaned. Echo sighed. Beartrap followed silently, because Beartrap always followed food.
Mafioso lingered one last second at Elliot’s door, his grin never faltering. Then he drifted behind them, silent as a shadow.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The kitchen of the Sonnellino estate had seen crimes, blood (fish or meat), and wine spilled like rubies across marble. But it had never seen this kind of horror.
Wire tied on an apron three sizes too big, sleeves rolled up. His eyes sparkled with determination. “Alright, gentlemen. Tonight, we cook… for Elliot.”
Beartrap grunted approval. Echo folded his arms, unimpressed. Cane sighed deeply, already regretting his existence.
Wire clapped his hands. “we need are ingredients!”
He dumped the rescued bag onto the counter. Out rolled a loaf of bread, two apples, a handful of rice, one stubborn onion, and a squashed tomato.
Echo squinted. “Where’s the milk?”
Wire grinned. “We’ll improvise.”
“With what?” Cane asked, skeptical.
Wire shrugged, already rifling through cabinets. “Something white and liquidy. We’ll figure it out!”
The Kitchen Trials: Begin
Wire’s Attempt
Wire puffed out his chest, tying his oversized apron tighter. “Gentlemen, allow me to demonstrate the art of improvisation.”
He slammed the cookbook down like it was scripture. The cover fell off immediately, scattering decades-old dust.
“Step one!” he declared. “Rice. One cup.”
He measured by eye, scooped up three overflowing handfuls, and dumped them into the pot. Rice grains skittered across the counter like tiny insects.
“Wire,” Cane said flatly, “that’s three times the amount.”
Wire waved him off. “Details. Cooking is about passion, not numbers.”
Next came “sugar.” He opened the cupboard, frowned, and found nothing. Then his gaze landed on the salt jar. “White powder, white powder—close enough!”
He poured it in with the flourish of a magician throwing glitter into the air. Salt rained down like snow over the rice.
Cane pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re doomed.”
Wire pressed on. He chopped apples into misshapen chunks, tossed in the bread like croutons, then glanced at the lonely tomato. “You, too, my friend.” Splat! Half the tomato slid into the pot, its juices bleeding into the mix.
Echo leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “This is less cooking and more… summoning ritual.”
Finally came the liquid. Wire’s eyes darted around the counter before settling on a bottle of white wine. He smirked, uncorked it, and poured half the bottle in with the gusto of a bartender at a nightclub.
The pot hissed. Not simmered—hissed. A rainbow sheen swirled across the surface, bubbles forming and popping in colors no food should ever display.
“Is it supposed to glow?” Echo asked, voice deadpan.
“Glow means it’s working!” Wire said proudly.
When the concoction was finally ladled into bowls, the four of them sat in silence. Beartrap, fearless as ever, took the first bite. He chewed slowly. Swallowed. His face betrayed nothing.
Wire’s grin split wide. “See? He loves it!”
Encouraged, Echo and Cane each took a small spoonful. Seconds later, both spat violently into the sink. Echo gagged, rinsing his mouth with tap water. Cane coughed so hard he nearly collapsed.
“Rainbow acid!” Echo wheezed.
Wire’s smile faltered. “What? It’s not that bad—”
Before he could finish, Beartrap’s eyes rolled back. He collapsed face-first into the counter with a dull thunk, spoon clattering from his limp hand.
Wire shrieked. “Beartrap! Speak to me!”
Echo solemnly placed a hand over his heart. “He lasted longer than us. A true soldier.”
Cane’s Attempt
After reviving Beartrap with cold water, Cane rolled up his sleeves. “Amateurs. Step aside. Precision will save us.”
He approached the pot like a surgeon. Each grain of rice was measured on a scale. Apple slices were cut into flawless, symmetrical wedges. His knife strokes were so precise they barely made a sound.
Wire whispered in awe. “It’s like watching a magician.”
Cane ignored him. He muttered calculations under his breath, adjusting water ratios by milliliters. Every stir was clockwise, exactly ten rotations per minute. His brow furrowed, beads of sweat forming, as though the lives of kings depended on this porridge.
Finally, he set bowls before them. The texture looked smooth, respectable.
Wire took the first sip. His expression crumbled. “It’s… it’s like eating… air.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Sad, glittery air.”
“Edible,” Cane corrected sharply.
“Edible?” Echo spat his mouthful into the trash can. “It’s like homework paper boiled in hot water! Who wants Elliot to eat homework?”
Beartrap sniffed, pushed the bowl away, and refused even a bite.
Wire forced himself to swallow, his throat twitching. “He deserves better than this, Cane. Elliot deserves flavor. Not… spreadsheets.”
Cane bristled. “Perfection is flavor.”
Echo rolled his eyes. “Perfection tastes like a math exam.”
Beartrap’s Attempt
The giant rose silently, his chair scraping across the floor. With a grunt, he shoved them aside. He didn’t ask. He simply began.
Into the pot went raw meat chunks, hacked apart with a cleaver. A jar of pickled vegetables followed. Then, to everyone’s horror, a handful of wriggling bugs he had hidden in his pocket like snacks.
“Beartrap—” Wire squeaked. “Bugs? Really?”
Beartrap said nothing, only stirred with grim purpose.
The kitchen filled with a smell like wet fur mixed with vinegar. The pot gurgled in protest, releasing steam that curled against the ceiling in foul tendrils.
When the stew was finished, Beartrap ladled a steaming bowl and shoved it toward Wire.
Wire’s loyalty betrayed him again. Trembling, he brought the spoon to his lips. One bite and his body convulsed. His face turned green. He swayed like a dying tree.
Echo and Cane grabbed his shoulders, shaking him until he spat the poisonous mass back into the bowl.
Beartrap, misinterpreting, patted Wire proudly on the back.
Wire groaned, half-conscious. “Why do I love you guys enough to risk this?”
Echo’s Attempt
“Step aside, idiots.” Echo shoved past, tying his sleeves up with deliberate slowness. He opened a cupboard and emerged with flour, butter, and sugar.
Minutes later, he returned with a tray of cookies. Golden, soft, steaming gently in the cold air. The smell was intoxicating, warm butter and caramelized sugar filling the kitchen like heaven itself.
Everyone stared, silent.
“…We were supposed to make porridge,” Cane muttered.
“So?” Echo took a bite. The cookie snapped perfectly. “These are edible. That’s more than I can say for your sewage experiments.”
Beartrap’s huge hand reached over, snatched one, and stuffed it whole into his mouth. He grunted, a sound dangerously close to approval.
Wire frowned. “But Elliot needs… comfort food. Something warm. Soup! Not… cookies!”
“Cookies comfort me,” Echo said flatly, reaching for another.
Wire puffed his cheeks. “That’s not the same!”
Echo ignored him, chewing slowly, savoring every bite. His smug satisfaction radiated across the kitchen.
Wire’s arms flailed in protest. “Elliot is fragile! He needs porridge, not biscuits! He’s not going to heal faster with chocolate chips!”
Echo raised an eyebrow. “You want him to smile or choke? Because these,” he waved a cookie dramatically, “are smiles baked into dough.”
Wire stomped his foot. “It’s not tradition!”
Echo smirked. “Neither is poisoning him with wine-porridge, Wire.”
Beartrap reached for another cookie. Cane, to everyone’s shock, picked one up, examined it like an artifact, then gave the smallest nod of respect before eating.
Wire groaned into his hands. “This is hopeless…”
…
The kitchen was still echoing with the crunch of cookies when the room shifted.
Not from noise—Mafioso never announced himself with noise—but from weight. A presence, heavy as smoke, pressed against their backs.
Wire, Cane, Echo, and Beartrap froze mid-bite. Beartrap’s jaw stopped chewing, Cookie half-dissolved between his teeth. Echo’s shades nearly slid off his nose. Cane’s normally calm composure cracked into a rare, sharp intake of breath.
All four turned in unison, like children caught red-handed.
Their boss was standing there.
Mafioso loomed in the doorway, shadow stretching across the flour-dusted tiles. His grin was the same as always: wide, sharp, unreadable. His fedora tipped low enough to hide his eyes, but they felt him watching.
The henchmen panicked.
Echo choked on his cookie, coughing violently. Cane slapped his back, though he himself looked seconds away from collapse. Wire dropped his half-cookie into the sink like it was contraband. Beartrap swallowed hard—too hard—and his throat audibly clicked like a lock snapping shut.
Nobody spoke.
The boss took a step forward. His shoes clicked against the marble, deliberate, patient. He looked around the chaos of the kitchen: the scorched pot from Wire’s rainbow rice, Cane’s bland glitter porridge still steaming faintly, Beartrap’s meat-and-bug catastrophe oozing down the counter, and Echo’s plate of cookies scattered like golden bribes.
His silence was worse than shouting.
Wire’s voice squeaked first. “B-Boss, we—we were only trying—”
Echo jabbed him with an elbow. “Shut up, he’s gonna kill us faster if you explain.”
Beartrap crossed his massive arms, trying to look stoic, but sweat dripped down his temples.
Then Mafioso reached for something.
A knife.
The sound of the blade leaving the rack cut through the room.
All four henchmen clamped their eyes shut, almost in perfect sync, like schoolboys awaiting the ruler across their knuckles. Cane even mustered a fake tear, squeezing it out with professional elegance. Wire whispered a prayer to no one in particular. Echo muttered, “If he kills me, bury me with my shades.” Beartrap just grunted once, low and resigned.
The seconds stretched long.
Then—chop.
Not flesh. Not bone.
Carrots.
Their eyes snapped open.
Mafioso had tied on a new apron. Neat, black, embroidered with faint gold thread—an apron they’d never noticed before, hidden away in some drawer like a secret weapon. The knife flashed in his hands, slicing through vegetables with terrifying speed and precision. His grip never faltered. Each cut was identical, perfectly measured.
The henchmen gawked.
Wire whispered, “Boss… can… can cook?”
Echo shoved him. “Shut up before he hears you.”
But Mafioso wasn’t listening. He was elsewhere—focused, intent. He laid the vegetables into a pot, added rice in the correct portion, poured milk (don’t ask where he get it) with careful restraint. He wasn’t guessing or winging it like them; every movement was deliberate, sharp, commanding. He didn’t look at a cookbook. He was the cookbook.
The smell hit them first.
Rich, savory broth. Creamy rice softening in milk, not drowning. Vegetables releasing sweetness, layered with hints of garlic and herbs. Mafioso reached for spices, sprinkling pinches like a painter adding strokes of color. A dash of salt—not a snowfall like Wire’s disaster. Just enough to wake the flavors.
The kitchen filled with warmth.
Echo sniffed, stiffened, then sighed before he realized it. “Smells like… home.”
Cane adjusted his hat, covering the tremor in his voice. “Yes. It does.”
Wire’s stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear. He clutched it in embarrassment.
Beartrap leaned forward, nostrils flaring. His eyes softened, the closest thing to emotion his face usually showed.
Mafioso didn’t turn around. He never did. He just stirred, calm and patient. Then, when the porridge had thickened just right, he dipped a spoon, tasted it in silence, adjusted with another flick of seasoning, and tasted again.
Not once did his grin change.
The henchmen leaned in closer, practically drooling. Their earlier chaos—the shouting, the coughing, the rainbow-colored acid in the sink—felt like a different universe. This wasn’t comedy. This was reverence.
Finally, Mafioso ladled steaming portions into bowls. He set them onto the counter without turning. His voice, low and even, cut through the haze:
“…Taste test.”
No question. A command.
The henchmen scrambled. Echo elbowed Wire. Wire elbowed Cane. Beartrap elbowed all three and won the first bowl.
Beartrap took one bite. His huge shoulders stiffened, then loosened. His eyes fluttered shut. He let out the faintest sigh.
Cane followed, bringing the spoon delicately to his lips. He swallowed, blinked, and murmured, “Balanced. Warm. Precise.”
Echo scooped up a mouthful, chewed slowly. “…Better than cookies,” he admitted reluctantly.
Wire’s turn came last. He lifted his spoon with shaking hands. The flavor washed over him in waves—comfort, depth, safety. His chest tightened, eyes stinging. “It’s like…” He struggled for words. “Like when my mom… made soup when I was sick. Boss…”
He couldn’t finish. He just slurped again, greedily, cleaning the bowl until not a grain was left.
Within minutes, all four bowls were empty. The henchmen scraped at the bottoms, desperate for more. Cane, normally refined, licked his spoon. Echo muttered curses under his breath, furious that he wanted seconds. Beartrap grunted approval, tapping the counter for refills. Wire actually bowed toward the pot.
Mafioso finally turned, ladling one last serving into a clean bowl. He didn’t acknowledge their worship. Didn’t gloat. Just nodded once, satisfied.
He handed the bowl to Wire.
“Take it to him.”
Wire froze, wide-eyed. “Me?”
“Mm.” Mafioso’s grin stretched wider. “Don’t spill.”
Wire clutched the hot bowl like it was holy. “Y-Yes, boss!” His voice cracked with joy. He bolted toward Elliot’s room, careful not to trip, practically glowing with pride.
The other henchmen watched him disappear. Then, slowly, they turned back to Mafioso.
He was already cleaning the knife, apron spotless, as though nothing had happened.
The kitchen, still heavy with the smell of porridge, hummed with silence.