Page 90 of The Monster's Daughter

Istand in the middle of what used to be my father's pride and joy, staring at a half-burned, crumbling sign that once readThrok’s Delicacies.Now it’s justT k’s Deli, the rest eaten away by years of smoke and acid rain. The whole block smells faintly of rust and reclaimed ozone, but the air tastes breathable again. Livable.

Xeros is healing. So am I. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Bella leans against the empty frame where the door will go, arms crossed, one boot tapping out a beat on the dusty tile. “You sure you want to do this?”

“No,” I say truthfully. “But I need to.”

She nods, like she gets it. Of course she does. She’s been carrying ghosts too.

Three weeks later, the walls are standing again. Rebuilt with scuffed alloy panels and thick polymer glass. The kitchen hums with new wiring, old memories. I line the shelves by hand—every spice jar, every seasoning cube. Exactly how Jamie used to do it.

Natalie helps where she can, which mostly involves knocking over inventory and labeling the freezerPORTAL TO ICE HELL. She’s so damn proud of it, I leave the sticker on.

Bella snorts when she sees it. “Your daughter’s an artist.”

“She takes after you,” I murmur, rearranging the pickled grivah jars for the fourth time.

“I don’t label freezers ‘ice hell.’”

“You label trauma like it’s a medical report. Same thing.”

She laughs and flicks a peppercorn at me. I catch it in my mouth and wink. She rolls her eyes, but her smile lingers.

The opening day is slow. A trickle of curious eyes from the settlement’s new edge. Old soldiers. Grizzled laborers. A couple of hybrid kids dragged along by their tired-looking parents.

They all hesitate when they see me behind the counter. Grolgath aren’t exactly known for culinary hospitality.

“Try the pastrami,” I say, sliding a plate across the glass. “Spiced like my mother used to make it. She won three brawls and a regional cooking contest. This sandwich is how she started both.”

A gruff-looking human squints at me. “You cook?”

“Better than I fight,” I lie smoothly.

He takes a bite. Pauses. Chews. Then groans.

“Holy stars,” he mutters, going in for another bite.

By noon, the line curves out the door.

Bella swings by mid-shift with Natalie balanced on her hip, both wearing matching aprons that sayFEED ME OR FIGHT ME.

“You’re gonna be a local legend,” she says, stealing a fry from the counter.

“I’m already legendary,” I reply. “This just adds flavor.”

Natalie pipes up, “I drew a menu!”

She holds up a crayon-smudged sheet: a purple blob labeled “MEAT TOWER” and a stick figure with claws. “That’s you, Daddy. You’re the meat boss.”

Bella chokes on her soda, laughing. “Meat Boss. That’s your new title now.”

“I swear on every condiment in this shop,” I say solemnly, “I’m getting that on a name tag.”

The deli becomes something else in the weeks that follow.

Veterans come to reminisce over soup. Former enemies share booths without speaking. Kids scribble peace sigils on napkins. One day, a human woman sits at the counter and says quietly, “My son died on the Barren Front. I hated your kind for years. Then I saw your holovid. I still grieve. But now... I eat.”

I make her a sandwich. On the house.