Chapter 10

• “Are you feeling unwell, Gala?” Mr. Richard asked as soon as he saw Gala trudging up the stairs. He’d caught a glimpse of him the night before—running, pale as a ghost, practically throwing his bike down like a madman. Not to mention the deafening slam of his flat door. Mr. Richard had wanted to ask for a favor, but seeing Gala like that had made him think twice.
• “No, Mr. Richard.” Gala blinked, surprised by the sudden greeting from the old man.
• “Glad to hear that. Was it a tough day?”
• To Gala, that simple question carried more concern than anyone else in the entire building ever showed him. Only Mr. Richard ever bothered to ask how he was doing. The other tenants seemed to just wish he’d move out. Gala paused and turned back down the stairs, holding off from reaching his flat. His entire body ached after the mountain of chores at Mr. Jian’s house.
• “Not really, Mr. Richard,” he replied, forcing a tired smile. He had no idea how terrible he must look in a mirror—hair a mess, shirt wrinkled and damp with sweat and smelling like garbage. Literally. “It’s late. You should get some rest, Mr. Richard.”
• “That’s something you should be telling yourself, Gala,” Mr. Richard huffed. He gave Gala’s shoulder a solid pat, hard enough to make him wince. “Now go get some sleep. Don’t forget—your day off means helping me later.”
• “Yes, Mr. Richard. Good night.”
• Mr. Richard watched him go, eyes following the younger man’s tall, slouched figure as he climbed the stairs. He’d known Gala since the boy moved in with his mother. They were good people, both—until one day, Bellamie just… vanished. All she left behind was a desperate plea: watch over my son. A mother’s request on a stormy night, one Mr. Richard had never forgotten.
• He remembered it clearly.
• “What’s going on?” he’d asked Bellamie that night, his voice tight as she cried on the worn-out sofa in his living room.
• “I… Xavier. But—”
• “You’re speaking in riddles, Bellamie. Just tell me straight.”
• “I must find Xavier, Mr. Richard. But… I can’t take Gala with me. I—”
• “Xavier?”
• “My husband.”
• Ah. So Gala did have a father. When they’d first moved in, Mr. Richard had assumed Gala was the child of a single mother. He’d never seen a man around, and Bellamie had seemed perfectly capable on her own. And Gala, that small, quiet boy, had always seemed content enough.
• “I’m begging you,” Bellamie had said, her eyes spilling tears. “Your help means everything to me, Mr. Richard.”
• He remembered the way she’d left—watched it happen from his flat window. Nothing, not even the raging storm outside, could stop her from walking away. The image of her blonde hair vanishing into the night still haunted him. Every time he thought of that night, he felt another stab of pity for Gala. No matter how tall or grown the boy was now, he still looked like someone who’d been abandoned—by both parents. No visitors, no letters. Nothing.
• Meanwhile, inside his flat, Gala rushed into the bathroom. His skin felt sticky all over. Maybe a shower with that mint-scented soap would help him sleep better. And tonight, he had to sleep well. Tomorrow would be hell—Mr. Kim had already warned him. A big discount event meant the restaurant would be flooded with customers. Gala could already see the mountain of dirty plates and greasy pans flashing in his mind.
• But the moment he stepped out of the bathroom, a mouthwatering smell hit him—cooked food.
• “Dice?” he called out.
• Still drying his hair, water dripping from his shoulders, he padded barefoot toward the kitchen just a few steps away. And there she was—the hologram girl—moving gracefully through the tiny kitchen, working every tool like she belonged there.
• She was cooking.
• “Dice?”
• She turned to him, her gaze steady. “Would you mind getting dressed, Sir? I may be made from advanced technology, but the soul at my core is still that of a woman. I do have a sense of modesty.”
• It should’ve been Dice who turned red—but instead, Gala’s face flushed instantly, like a ripe tomato. She stared straight at him, calm and composed, while he scrambled back into his room, mortified.
• It didn’t take long for him to throw on a T-shirt and a pair of worn-out track pants. His clothing options were limited, mostly made up of hand-me-downs or donated pieces. If they weren’t too tight and still wearable, Gala didn’t mind. Looking presentable had never been a priority, but his money was never enough for vanity.
• “Is this what all of Xavier’s inventions are like?” he asked as he stepped out, rubbing a towel through his damp hair.
• Dice turned again, this time away from the stove. Her cooking was done. On the table were a neat meal—slices of smoked meat, mashed potatoes, and a few pieces of fresh fruit. Gala’s stomach growled loudly, and he swallowed hard, barely resisting the urge to dive straight in. Just the smell alone was enough to make his knees weak.
• He hadn’t had a meal like this in ages.
• Not since the days when his mother still sat across from him, laughing and talking about the things they’d do together—dreams of places to go, things to learn. That had been a different life. One that felt a thousand years away.
• “Yes, Sir. I was created to assist, serve, and protect Mr. Xavier. Now, that duty belongs to you.”
• Gala let out a small scoff. “Quite something, creating a machine like you.”
• Dice said nothing, simply observing him as he sat down and began eating. He dug in hungrily—probably because he was drained from work and hadn’t eaten properly all day.
• Her internal memory began to playback scenes of Xavier in his youth, before he met Bellamie. He had eaten just like this when exhausted—quickly, like the food might vanish if he didn’t.
• There were similarities between father and son. Physically, they were alike. Gala’s skin was paler, maybe from poor nutrition, and his face lacked the refined features Xavier once had. His clothes were worn and tired looking, a detail Dice couldn’t help noticing. But despite it all, he was alive. He was here. And that meant the mission could continue.
• Though, based on the way Gala lived, Dice suspected he had no idea what was at stake with Metro. His life was the opposite of Xavier’s—who had been bold, powerful, and feared. No one ever underestimated him. One strike from Xavier’s weapon, and his enemies would fall. Even those who resisted eventually submitted. A true warrior—that’s what Dice called him.
• Gala, on the other hand, looked like someone struggling just to survive.
• It didn’t take long for Gala to finish eating. He leaned back, feeling like his stomach might burst. Everything Dice had cooked was incredible. Maybe it was because he had nothing to compare it to, but still—he was full, and that was all that mattered tonight.
• He’d even sorted through the food he brought back from Mr. Jian’s, now stacked neatly in the fridge he still couldn’t believe was full.