Tssss-hiss!

The sound was sharp. As the wings dropped into the vat, the oil erupted, sputtering and throwing tiny hot droplets across the stainless steel. Jun didn’t flinch; he’d stood through a literal hell, so a little grease was nothing. He watched the chicken meat sizzling in the heat, the rising steam carrying the sharp, pungent sting of his “Ghost Pepper Glaze.”

“Jun, I don’t think the chicken should be fried. Also if this shop doesn’t open by noon, I’m going back to mercenary work,” Ren called out. He was at the front, obsessively buffing a smudge off the window of their dream. “My charm is wasted on empty tables and a sidewalk.”

Jun didn’t look up from the fryer. He shook the basket, the metal clinking against the rim—a habit he’d repeated for months and months.

“This job is better than the old one, Ren. Less paperwork. Fewer people shooting at us.”

“Barely,” Ren muttered. He looked at the shop—The Iron Beak—and then at Jun. He was the only man left from the squad, the only one who knew the exact ratio of Jun’s spices, and the only one who knew why a man with Jun’s “past” was now obsessed with the perfect crunch. “You’re staring at the chicken like it’s a target, Jun. Relax. It’s dinner, not a threat.”

Ren leaned against the prep table, tossing a lemon in the air and catching it with ease. While Jun was all sharp angles and scarred knuckles, Ren was the fluid guy, calm and moved with an easy confidence. His dark, soft wolf cut was gathered into a low mini-ponytail, with a bang that swept just past his eyes.

Even in a grease-splattered apron, he looked effortlessly polished. He had the sleeves of his silk-blend shirt pushed up his forearms, revealing some muscle—not too thick, but undeniably there.

“The texture is off,” Jun grumbled, his voice heavy. “This batch is no good.”

Ren stepped in directly behind him, closing the space until they were back-to-chest. He reached around, his arms framing Jun as he reached over Jun’s wrist—rubbing it slowly, a steadying pressure against the tension.

Jun looked down at the hand covering his own, then tilted his head back, catching Ren’s gaze over his shoulder. There was a heat in Ren’s eyes.

“The texture is perfect because you made it,” Ren said softly, his breath warm against Jun’s ear. “And because I’m the one who’s going to sell it. We’re a team, remember? My mouth, your hands.”

Jun felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders, his weight settling back against Ren’s chest for a fraction of a second. Jun felt Ren’s words. He acknowledged it. They had spent ten years together fighting enemies, and in this kitchen, that was the only thing that mattered.

Then, Jun’s head tilted a fraction of an inch toward the reflection in the polished stainless steel of the hood vent.

In the distorted curve of the metal, he saw a black sedan glided to a halt in front of the shop. It didn’t park; it just sat there, idling. The engine hummed with a low, expensive vibration Jun felt in the soles of his boots. It sat too heavy on its springs. Armored.

“Ren,” Jun said, his voice flat. “Company.”

Ren, still pressed against his back, felt the shift in Jun's muscles. He didn’t have to look. He knew that specific stillness; it was the same way Jun looked right before something went sideways. Ren’s hand slipped away from Jun’s wrist down to a heavy knife on the prep table, his thumb tracing the bolster.

“Tinted windows?” Ren asked, the playful warmth leaving his voice.

“Too dark for this neighborhood,” Jun replied. He watched the reflection as a door finally opened. A man stepped out, adjusting a dark, double-breasted suit that hung with an unnatural stiffness. He concealed a holster. The fabric was expensive—heavy wool that didn't wrinkle—and he wore a crisp white shirt buttoned all the way up. “Ten o’clock. Heavy on the left side. He’s not here to eat.”

Ren pulled away, his warmth leaving a cold spot on Jun’s back. He didn’t panic; he simply smoothed his apron and adjusted his already pushed-up sleeves, his eyes turning predatory.

“Well,” Ren whispered, his voice smooth. “Let’s see if he’s here for the Ghost Pepper or the ghost in your past.”

“Get the bag ready, Ren,” Jun said, his focus shifting toward the door. “The Suit is coming.”