Corso leaned against the fresh breach in my wall, picking plaster dust from his tailored charcoal cuff with a manicured thumbnail. He peered at the property records scattered across my cracked Formica counter. “Cleaver’s Den is a fortress. They don’t just ‘place an order,’ Kaddem. This is an invitation to a bloodbath. A calculated risk, I assume?” I looked at the deed for a Sky-Villa. Seven thousand square feet of reinforced durasteel, panoramic views of the polluted Krepis skyline, and a private air-garden. It was exactly the kind of place Minna deserved, a place where Liro could build his impossible contraptions without worrying about plasma scorch marks on the ceiling. A place where the only threat was forgetting to water the hydroponic herbs. The Iron Skillet syndicate controlled almost every square inch of the upper district. If I wanted that villa, I couldn’t just earn enough points. I had to eliminate the competition. “Calculated risk,” I deadpanned, retrieving my thermal soup thermos. “You could say that.” I glanced at Minna, strapped into her armored stroller, already inspecting the damaged wall with the intense focus of a demolition expert. Her tiny fingers traced a bullet hole, a low hum of curiosity in her throat. She shoved a spent shell casing into her mouth; I fished it out before it hit her molars. Every corporate emblem on that parchment represented a hostile entity bent on intercepting my delivery. “Cleaver’s Den is heavily guarded, Nura,” Liro’s voice crackled from my comms. He was already at his console, a dizzying array of flickering screens illuminating his face. “Standard entry points are suicide. They’ve got plasma grids, sonic dampeners, and automated turret clusters.” Corso, ever the expert on lethal architecture, chimed in, “And the internal security is worse. Motion sensors that detect a fly’s wingbeat, pressure plates that trigger nerve gas, and their elite ‘Bone-Carver’ enforcers patrolling every corridor.” He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “However, there’s always an overlooked avenue. The culinary guild’s supply route. It’s a dedicated, subterranean elevator system, serviced by the ‘Gourmand’s Gallery’ kitchens. High-grade ingredients get priority clearance. No one checks for… unscheduled cargo.” I nodded, a plan already forming. Unscheduled cargo. Sounded like Minna and me. And maybe a flash-bang or two. “The elevator shaft has its own encrypted control network,” Liro continued, typing furiously. “Separate from the main building’s systems. Hard to crack remotely, but once we’re inside… I can disable their internal security grid. But I’ll need direct access to their mainframe. A physical connection.” “Physical connection?” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean I have to carry you in?” “No, you have to plug *me* in,” Liro corrected, his voice tinged with youthful exasperation. “My rig. It’s custom-built. No wireless backdoor will do. Their firewalls are too robust. Think of it as a specialized data-knife. Point-blank infiltration.” I pictured myself, Minna in her stroller, Liro’s hulking hacking rig slung over my shoulder, navigating the labyrinthine corridors of Cleaver’s Den. It was a disaster waiting to happen, a comedy of errors in the making. But it was the only way. I looked at the deed again, at the image of the Sky-Villa, shimmering in the holographic projection. Minna deserved that. Liro deserved that. And if it meant becoming a human USB port, then so be it. [Such enthusiasm for a catering engagement! Your dedication to fulfilling your contractual obligations, even in the face of… shall we say, *challenging* logistical parameters, is commendable. True culinary artistry requires sacrifice. Awarding: Thermal-Plated Diaper Bag. May your precious cargo remain appropriately insulated.] “Thermal-plated diaper bag,” I muttered, looking at Minna, who was now attempting to eat a loose wire she’d found. “Perfect.” “Their main kitchens are on the ninety-seventh floor, Nura,” Liro said through the link. “The order has a strict prep time. The clock is ticking. You have three hours until the head chef initiates final plating protocols.” Three hours. Three hours to bring down a syndicate. I strapped on my weaponized thermos, hefted Minna’s stroller, and gave a curt nod to Corso. “Let’s get cooking.” The timer on my comms flared a stark crimson, a countdown to the most important meal of my life.

Prep Cook Protocols