The Reclaimer placed his final property card down on the table with a victorious smirk, his pile of cash towering over Elyne's much-diminished stack. "And that, Detective, is how you dominate capitalism."
Elyne leaned back in the couch, arms crossed, glaring at the board like it had personally betrayed her. "Congratulations. You're officially the most insufferable tycoon in a game that was rigged from the start."
He chuckled, leaning over the table to collect the little green houses she'd barely managed to place before her financial demise.
Then, he stretched his arms lazily and stood, the faint sound of his chair scraping against the floor breaking the silence.
"Alright, Detective," he said, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, "time to test my culinary skills. What do you say to something a little more substantial than toast and eggs?"
Elyne snorted softly, her gaze fixed on the screen. "Do what you want. I'm not stopping you."
"Not stopping me isn't the same as joining me," he teased, moving toward the small kitchen. "Come on. It'll be more fun with two."
Elyne shot him a glare, finally tearing her eyes from the screen. "You're not seriously expecting me to cook with you."
"Why not?" He flashed her a grin over his shoulder, already pulling out a pan and a knife. "I could use a sous-chef. And I doubt you've got anything better to do."
Her jaw tightened. He had a point, and she hated that. With an annoyed sigh, she got up, stalking toward the kitchen like she was heading into battle. "Fine. But if you expect me to peel potatoes or some other domestic crap, forget it."
He chuckled, opening the fridge. "Noted. No potato peeling for the detective."
Elyne leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he began pulling ingredients from the fridge: vegetables, a pack of chicken, a carton of cream. She raised an eyebrow. "You planning a five-star dinner in this dungeon?"
The Reclaimer shrugged, setting the ingredients neatly on the counter. "Might as well make the best of the situation. Besides," he added, grabbing a chopping board, "I have a reputation to uphold."
She rolled her eyes. "As a kidnapper-chef?"
"As a man of many talents," he corrected smoothly, handing her a knife. "Here. Make yourself useful."
Elyne stared at the knife in her hand, debating whether to use it to slice the chicken or him. With a sigh, she stepped forward and began cutting the vegetables instead, her movements precise and mechanical. The Reclaimer worked beside her, humming softly, his confidence infuriatingly unshaken.
"So," he said after a moment, breaking the silence, "do you cook often, or is your diet mostly takeout and coffee?"
"Takeout and coffee," Elyne replied bluntly, not bothering to look up. "I don't exactly have the luxury of time for this."
"Shame," he mused, tossing the chicken into the pan with a sizzle. "Cooking's therapeutic. You should try it more often."
"I'll add it to my to-do list," she said dryly, her knife slicing through a bell pepper with a satisfying crunch.
They worked in near silence for the next few minutes, the rhythmic sounds of chopping and sizzling filling the air. Elyne found herself watching him more than she intended, noting the efficiency of his movements, the way he seemed entirely at ease in this strange domestic performance. It was unsettling, how normal he could seem, how he managed to slip between the role of killer and this—whatever this was.
Of course, he caught her staring. "Enjoying the view, Detective?" he said with a smirk, "Don't worry, I'm used to it."
She scowled, throwing a slice of carrot at him. It hit his shoulder and fell to the floor. He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made her stomach twist in a way she didn't like.
"Okay," he said, brushing the carrot away, "remind me not to mess with you in the kitchen."
"Smartest thing you've said all day," she retorted, grabbing a towel to wipe her hands.
Minutes later, he placed two plates on the counter, each holding a neatly arranged serving of creamy chicken and vegetables over rice. Elyne blinked, surprised at how appetizing it looked.
"Bon appétit," he said, sliding her a fork. "And before you say anything, yes, it's safe to eat."
"I wasn't worried," she lied, stabbing at the food with her fork.
They ate in relative silence, the tension between them momentarily dulled by the surprisingly good meal. But Elyne's mind was far from calm. Watching him like this, so casual, so composed—it was hard to reconcile this version of him with the man who had killed in cold blood. The man she was supposed to take down.
"Not bad," she admitted grudgingly, setting her fork down.
"High praise," he said with mock seriousness, bowing slightly. "I'll cherish it forever."
"Make sure to add it to your résumé. Right under 'professional nuisance." she muttered, though her lips twitched despite herself.
His deep, rumbling laughter echoed, dispelling the strange tension with an ease that unsettled her. His green eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed casually.
"You know," he said, grinning, "I should put that on a business card. 'Professional Nuisance.' Think I'd get any takers?"
Elyne rolled her eyes, hiding her own small smile by looking down at her plate. "I'm sure you'd have plenty. But probably not the kind you want."
It was maddening how easily he disarmed her with his ridiculous charm. He chuckled again but quickly shifted gears, his tone becoming more thoughtful as he leaned back against the counter, studying her with a look that was equal parts curious and disarming.
"So, Detective," he said, tilting his head slightly, "was this always the dream? Being a cop?"
The question caught her off guard. The automatic answer—yes—rose to her lips out of habit, a well-rehearsed line she'd repeated countless times before. But this time, it stuck in her throat. Something else stirred in the back of her mind, a memory she hadn't revisited in years.
When she was small, before ... everything, she had wanted to be something else entirely. Something innocent and unexpected. Her fork stilled in her hand, the past pulling her away from the present.
"What?" he asked, noticing her hesitation.
Elyne's eyes flicked to his, wary. Her walls, those invisible but ever-present defenses, threatened to rise again. But then a thought crept in: if she opened up, even just a little, maybe he would too. Maybe, just maybe, she could use his own game against him.
"Well..." She paused, her voice quieter now, almost tentative. "No, I didn't always want to be a cop."
That caught his attention. He tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming with interest. "Really? What did Little Elyne dream of, then?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Little Elyne. The words sparked an ache she hadn't expected, a fleeting reminder of a time when she'd been just that—little, naive, unbroken.
She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be... a potter," she said, her voice so quiet it almost surprised her. "You know, making bowls, mugs, things like that."
"A potter?" His eyebrows shot up, and then a slow smile spread across his face. "That is adorable."
"Shut up," she muttered, her cheeks flushing slightly. She looked away, her gaze settling on the faint flicker of the stovetop flame. "It's stupid."
"It's not," he said, his tone softening. "You? Detective Elyne Cooper, making mugs from scratch? Seems wholesome."
"It wasn't about being wholesome," she shot back, her tone sharper now. "It was about creating something. About having control over how it turned out."
His grin softened at that, the teasing edge fading. "That makes sense," he said after a beat, his voice quieter. "There's something honest about that. Simple."
She glanced at him, her lips curling despite herself. "Don't worry. It didn't last long."
"Why not?" he pressed, his voice genuinely curious now. "You couldn't handle the heat?"
The joke was there, but his tone wasn't mocking. It was something else—something earnest that she didn't want to analyze. Elyne hesitated again, her mind flashing to the years that followed, the reasons that had snuffed out that innocent dream. Her hand tightened slightly around her fork, and she shrugged, deflecting.
"Life happened," she said simply, her tone sharpening to discourage further questions.
But the Reclaimer wasn't so easily deterred. "Life happens to everyone, Detective. But not everyone trades clay for a gun and a badge." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. "So what happened to you?"
Elyne's chest tightened, and for a moment, she couldn't find her voice. She hated how easily he saw through her deflection, how his gaze seemed to strip away her carefully constructed armor. The truth was there, clawing at the edges of her resolve, but letting it out felt too much like losing.
"People don't just become killers," she said instead, her voice steady but low. "And they don't just become cops, either."
The Reclaimer's expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes. "Touché," he murmured, his voice carrying a note of quiet understanding.
Elyne watched him closely, waiting for him to press further, but he didn't. Instead, he turned back to the counter, his movements deliberate as he cleared the plates. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken truths.
As he moved, Elyne's mind churned. For the first time, she wondered if he had once had innocent dreams too—something far removed from this life of masks and vendettas.
The conversation was veering into dangerous territory—too personal, too vulnerable. She needed to steer it back, to regain control.
She shifted in her seat, her voice breaking the quiet. "What about you?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "Did you always dream of becoming a 'professional nuisance?' Or did that come later?"
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good try, Detective," he said lightly. "But I think I'll save my origin story for another time."
Her brow arched. "Convenient."
"Practical," he corrected, his tone turning playful again. "Mystery is half my charm, after all."
Elyne narrowed her eyes, her instincts flaring. He was deflecting, again, slipping behind that impenetrable wall of charm and misdirection he seemed to wear like armor.
But then, just for a moment, his grin faltered—barely. It widened slightly, a touch too deliberate, like a mask slipping into place. "But," he said, his tone light yet edged with something darker, "you could say I've always had a taste for shaking things up."
For a split second, before he could fully don that cocky, self-assured façade, Elyne caught it. A flicker in his eyes, something unguarded. Vulnerability, perhaps? Regret? It was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, but she had seen it.
Finally, she thought, her pulse quickening. An opening.