Chapter 226: 226 | Sustenance as a Status Symbol
I locked my door and headed downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator in this building moved like it was powered by apology letters. Percy looked up from his notebook as I passed through the common room, his pen frozen mid-stroke.
"You changed."
"Felicity happened."
"The shirt suits your coloring better than the hoodies. The blue picks up the amber in your eyes and creates a complementary contrast that most people would require professional consultation to achieve."
"Thanks, Percy."
"That was not a compliment. That was an observation. Compliments require intent." He paused. "But you’re welcome."
I crossed the quad in the golden hour light, the campus quieting down as students filtered toward the main cafeteria building on the south side of the Academic Spine.
Halloran’s cafeteria occupied the entire ground floor of the Athena Wing, a glass and white concrete structure that connected to the science labs on one side and the Hero Law lecture halls on the other.
I’d seen the building during orientation tours but hadn’t actually eaten there yet, surviving on protein bars, Percy’s emergency granola stash, and whatever Caden’s gravity-assisted cooking produced in the common room.
The double doors opened onto a space that made me stop walking.
The Halloran Academy cafeteria was not a cafeteria. Calling it a cafeteria was like calling the ocean a puddle.
The room stretched the entire width of the Athena Wing, probably two hundred feet across, with thirty-foot ceilings supported by exposed steel beams painted white. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran along the south wall, flooding the space with the last of the afternoon sun and offering a panoramic view of the lower campus grounds where training fields spread out toward the treeline.
The floor was polished concrete, the kind that looked industrial but cost more per square foot than marble because some designer had convinced the administration that heroes eat better on modernist surfaces.
But the food.
The food was the thing.
A central island ran down the middle of the room for at least sixty feet, split into stations that each could have operated as an independent restaurant. The first station featured a sushi bar with a glass display case full of rolls and nigiri arranged on ice like edible jewelry.
A chef in a white coat stood behind the counter with a knife that caught the light every time he moved. Next to that, a ramen station with three different broth bases simmering in enormous vats, the steam curling up toward the ceiling and carrying a pork bone richness that made my stomach clench.
Then a Mediterranean spread with lamb rotating on a vertical spit, hummus in four different colors, and a flatbread station where someone was pulling fresh naan from a tandoor oven built directly into the counter.
That was one side of the island.
The other side started with a classic American grill, burgers on an open flame sending columns of smoke into the industrial ventilation system. Next to that, a Korean BBQ station with tabletop grills where students could cook their own meat, the raw cuts displayed on a refrigerated shelf that stretched six feet. A pasta station with hand-pulled noodles.
A taco bar. A salad station the size of most apartments I’d lived in, with greens I couldn’t identify and toppings organized by dietary restriction with little placard labels. A smoothie bar with fresh fruit and what appeared to be a nitrogen flash-freeze system for making ice cream on demand.
And that was just the central island.
Against the far wall, a bakery counter displayed croissants, danish pastries, bread loaves, and a rotating cake display that would have made Diane weep with joy. A coffee bar occupied the corner with equipment that rivaled the best third-wave shops in downtown Verano. A juice station. A soup station with eight options. A dessert wall with individual portions arranged in glass cases like museum exhibits.
A full-service gelato station.
I stood in the doorway of the Halloran Academy cafeteria and stared at a food operation that could have fed a small nation, all of it included in tuition, all of it available seven days a week from six in the morning until midnight according to the orientation packet I’d barely skimmed.
No wonder tuition cost what it cost.
"Lukas!"
Sloane’s voice carried across fifty feet of polished concrete and food aroma. She sat at a long table near the windows with a group of people I partially recognized. Her pink ponytail swung as she waved me over, and even from this distance I could see the specific expression she wore when she wanted me to hurry up and thought I was being deliberately slow.
I grabbed a tray and loaded it while walking, which was harder than it sounds but easier when you have a hundred Agility.
The ramen station got my attention first. Tonkotsu broth, thick and cloudy with rendered pork fat, two slices of chashu that glistened under the heat lamp, a soft-boiled egg split in half to reveal the orange jammy center, scallions, nori, and noodles that had the right density when I prodded them with the tongs.
I added a side of gyoza from the adjacent station because twelve dumplings for zero additional dollars was not a decision, it was a moral obligation. Then a plate of Korean short ribs from the BBQ station that the attendant sliced while I watched, the caramelized edges releasing a sweetness that competed with the tonkotsu broth for dominance in my nasal cavity.
By the time I reached Sloane’s table, my tray looked like I was hosting a dinner party for four.
"You’re late and you brought enough food for a family."
"The ramen line moved slow." I slid into the seat beside Sloane. "Also I regret nothing about the portions."
Koda sat across from us, already halfway through a mountain of fried chicken that would have concerned a physician. Her red hair caught the overhead lighting and her grin split wide when she saw my tray.
"That’s the right attitude. This place is insane. I’ve been here three hours and I already gained weight. On purpose."
