Ignazio’s study was a cavern of polished obsidian and frosted glass, the only light emanating from a holographic display that projected shimmering market figures across a vast desk. He didn't offer a seat. Safia stood before him, her spine rigid beneath the cheerful servant’s uniform, the ghost of Bastian’s warning chilling her composure. Ignazio leaned back, resting his palms flat on the cold desk. “You seem remarkably adept for someone so new to the role, Safia.” “Chiara rarely tolerates new faces.” “Children respond to kindness, sir,” Safia replied, her voice saccharine, an artful lilt. “And a little distraction.” She managed a bright, empty smile, thinking of Fiku, curled under Chiara’s bed. He watched her for a long, unsettling moment, his eyes like chips of volcanic rock. “Indeed. Well, continue to distract her. I expect her to be settled. No more… episodes.” It wasn’t a request. “You are dismissed.” Safia curtsied, her smile unwavering, and retreated, her breath easing only when the heavy oak door closed behind her. The ‘special evaluation’ was over. He hadn’t touched on the EMP, the drone, or even the dog. Not yet. She had bought herself time. Hours later, the Vella Estate slept. The moon, a sliver of bone, hung high over the Cerulean Sea. Safia, clad in dark linen trousers and a wool pullover she’d pulled from the staff quarters, slipped down the corridor without a sound. Her phone, a burner provided by Bastian, pulsed once: *East wing camera array, secondary server node, level B4 utility closet.* Her target. She descended four floors in a service elevator, the counterweights sliding past in near-inaudible hums. The utility closet was a sterile, brightly lit space, a stark contrast to the opulence above. A tangle of fiber optics snaked along the back wall, a digital nervous system. Safia pulled a precision multi-tool from her pocket, its metallic glint reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. Just as she located the correct bundle, a soft clink echoed from the main kitchen above. She froze, listening. Another clink, followed by the faint slosh of liquid. Ignazio. Her throat tightened with irritation at the disruption. She couldn’t risk detection now. Her sister’s mounting clinic invoices pressed into her thoughts, a brutal countdown to the solstice. Slipping out of the utility closet, she ascended one floor, her footsteps barely audible on the polished floor. The kitchen, an expanse of stainless steel and black granite, was cloaked in shadows. Only the pale gray of the moon against the water pierced the panoramic window. Ignazio sat alone at the colossal central island, a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, his silhouette stark against the muted light. He wasn't looking at anything, his gaze fixed on the endless dark expanse of the sea. The expensive scotch in his glass told its own story of a sleepless night. Trauma-induced insomnia. Bastian’s whispers about his past, about the shadows that haunted the man, returned to her. Safia paused, weighing whether to melt back into the service stairwell. But the sight of him, so utterly alone, sparked a different calculation. This was an opening. A chance to deepen the perception of her domestic indispensability. She clicked on a soft, recessed light over a prep station, a warm glow illuminating a small section of the vast kitchen. The sudden light made Ignazio turn sharply, his knuckles blanching against the tumbler, his mask slipping just long enough to reveal bloodshot strain. Safia’s cheerful persona clicked into place, seamless and effortless. “Goodness, sir! You’re still up?” Her voice was soft, laced with a practiced concern. “Can I get you anything? Perhaps something warm?” She didn't wait for an answer, moving with purpose. “A night like this calls for something… comforting.” She opened a cold larder, retrieving an assortment of fresh vegetables, some tender cuts of slow-braised lamb from dinner, and a small, rustic jar of her own spice blend she’d smuggled in. The industrial cook space lost its edge as the prep station came alive under her hands. She chopped garlic with practiced speed, the rhythmic thud of the knife a counterpoint to the soft simmer she started on the induction stove. The scent of sautéing onions, bay leaf, and her secret blend of Oslavian herbs began to fill the air, chasing away the cold, sterile metallic tang of the hyper-modern space. She made a *Mqarrun il-Forn* — a rich, slow-cooked lamb and pasta stew, fragrant and hearty, a dish her grandmother used to make for her when she was ill. Ignazio watched without moving, his scotch glass abandoned on the quartz counter. His gaze, no longer vulnerable, was simply… watchful. Intent. The stew simmered, thickening into a rich, mahogany broth. Safia ladled a generous portion into a handcrafted ceramic bowl, its warmth radiating through the earthenware. She turned, walking towards him, the steam from the stew rising in fragrant tendrils. “Here you are, sir,” she said, letting her practiced grin soften into something easier and patient. She extended the bowl. His fingers, long and elegant, brushed hers as he took it. The scrape of his dry skin against hers sent heat crawling up her wrist. She dismissed the response as pure friction, steeling herself against her own pulse. A moment of accidental intimacy, nothing more. She pushed it down, the arrogant conviction of her immunity to such trivialities a shield. He inhaled deeply, the rich aroma swirling around him. He didn’t immediately eat, his eyes still fixed on her, a peculiar intensity in their depth. Just as he lifted the spoon, the grand entrance to the Vella Estate chimed, a musical, almost mocking sound at this ungodly hour. The pantry doors, keyed to open only for private suite codes, hissed aside. Carmela Dalli swept in, a vision of sculpted glamour in a slinky emerald gown, her platinum hair an expensive halo around her perfectly made-up face. Her eyes cut immediately to Ignazio, then dragged over Safia with casual disdain. “Ignazio, darling! I simply *had* to see you. That boring gala was quite stifling without you.” Her voice, carefully modulated for public appearances, was laced with an artificial sweetness. She barely acknowledged Safia’s presence. “And what is this… *stewardess* doing up so late?” Carmela’s lip curled, her gaze raking over Safia’s simple scrubs. “Honestly, Ignazio, your staff looks positively… common. Get rid of those dreadful clothes, girl. And then perhaps you can find a mop and scrub those floors. They look a little dull.” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, dismissing Safia as if she were a persistent fly. Ignazio kept his chin level, not shifting his attention away from Safia. He brought the spoon to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate bite of the stew. The savory broth softened the tightness around his mouth, though his gaze remained pinned to her face, hardening into a possessive stare. He chewed, swallowed, and spoke to Carmela without turning his head: “Carmela, if you ever speak to the woman feeding me like that again, I will personally ruin your life.”

Midnight Rations