Happy took the first bite. Then stopped. Then another.
By the third, he was mumbling, "What in God's name…"
Tony took his fork like a man preparing to disarm a bomb. He tried the rice first. Then the chicken. Then he dipped the chicken in the sauce. His expression didn't change, but the silence was deafening.
"This… is stupid good," he said finally. "Not in a trained chef kind of way. More like—like it shouldn't be possible."
"Careful," Marcus said with a smirk. "You're starting to sound impressed."
"I'm beyond that." Tony set down his fork and leaned forward. "What's your trick? I know this isn't just herbs and timing."
Marcus didn't blink. "I just cook. Maybe I care more than most."
Tony narrowed his eyes. "You're seventeen. You've got no formal culinary education. Your records say you barely passed algebra. And yet here you are, solving taste like it's quantum theory."
Marcus wasn't surprised that Tony had looked him up and it didn't even need a private investigator to find his history. For the moment, he didn't need to hide his history and things.
"Since you looked me up, did you look at the person behind the reason of your fat lip?" Marcus said, throwing salt at his wound. Almost literally. Tony could see the sarcasm, and replied.
"Your neighbor, Mia Carter, was married to this man, who turned violent and domestically abused her. But once she became pregnant, she decided to leave and file for divorce and restraining order. She was able to prove about the violence and thus the judge had granted the RO, and the divorce is still going on as she battling not only her husband but also her own family who thinks she had ashamed her and her ex's family by divorcing. Yeah, she doesn't have any support from any family member, from what I could gather."
Marcus was surprised that Mia had such a past. A small part of him could understand the anger of the man who had hit Tony the day before as his mind might have been occupied with the birth of the child and him not knowing anything. At those times the brain didn't tend to work normally and emotions take over. But the last bit of empathy had died down once he heard that the man abused her.
In no way in hell, Marcus was going to turn a blind eye. It was good that Tony was handling the case with this man, it just proved that the man was violent and needed to be under the jurisdiction of law at all times and thus the divorce now would proceed smoothly.
Happy was out cold on Marcus's threadbare couch, one leg draped over the armrest, his belly visibly rising and falling beneath a too-small throw blanket. Between his third helping of chicken and the garlic flatbread Marcus had casually thrown together, the man had slipped into what could only be described as a food-induced coma.
In the tiny living room, the fan buzzed overhead, stirring the faint scent of lemon and spice still lingering from lunch. Plates had been cleared, the modest kitchen tidied with quick, efficient movements. Tony stood near the back window, arms crossed, gaze not on the street outside—but on Marcus.
"Walk with me," he said, jerking his chin toward the narrow hallway. Marcus followed him toward a small back room, some old books stacked against one wall. The rooms might be small but they were well organized and everything was clean and proper.
Tony didn't sit. He turned, arms folded, and said flatly, "Let's talk about the juice."
Marcus leaned against the doorframe. "What juice?"
"The one you gave me at the hospital. Chlorophyll water. Nestlé bottle. Vending machine, second floor, 3:14 PM." He rattled it off like he was quoting a crime scene.
"You logging my small act of courtesy now?"
"No. Just the anomalies."
He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a compact biometric reader—one of his custom handheld units, the kind he didn't just hand out. He turned it so Marcus could see the screen. Graphs. Molecular diagrams. Blood chemistry deltas.
"You didn't give me juice. You gave me a compound I've never seen in a commercially sold bottle. You altered it somehow."
"I didn't do anything," Marcus said carefully.
Tony squinted. "You're a seventeen-year-old with no science background, and you're rewriting molecular structures like it's an after-school hobby."
Marcus stayed silent, but his fingers drummed slightly against the doorframe.
Tony stepped forward. "When I drank that juice—my oxygen uptake improved. Minor but real. Mitochondrial output too. My own sensors flagged the improvement and cross-referenced it with ingredients. The bottle shouldn't have done anything—but it did. That means someone altered it. And the main amazing part is that instead of giving me soda, you offered me that kind of water, which means you know that my body is suffering, something that even the doctor who was checking on me yesterday wasn't able to catch."
"So the real question is what exactly are you?" Tony asked. "If you say you are an alien, I would accept it." Marcus sighed. He knew that whatever he said wouldn't register in his brain. But then again, a part of him wanted this to happen.
Wanted Tony to notice him, it's just he didn't expect that Tony would come fast, hard and strong.
"What do you want from me?" Marcus asked.
"Picked up another one on the way here. Untouched. Want to show me what happens?" Tony said as he took out the bottle.
Marcus sighed, stepped forward, and took the bottle. He held it for maybe two seconds—one hand, relaxed grip—then handed it back.
"Drink it," he said.
Tony eyed the bottle, then uncapped it and took a swig. For a moment, nothing. Then he checked the biometric reader again.
His brow furrowed. Then lifted.
"Well I'll be damned. It's real. Again. Same signature shift. Different bottle size too. How are you doing this kid?"