Day 351, Year 987, 41st Millennium
Hive Kathion
Lower Hive
Valen's Left Hand stepped expertly onto the tank treads and climbed atop the turret of the Leman Russ Punisher. He unclipped the Vox-caster, tuning it to the private frequency encrypted for the Korvax family's high command.
"This is 'Omega' reporting to Command," he said, using the moniker given to him by the soldiers in a voice as cold as ice. "Confirming a Code Red situation at the border of the Thalric territory. Heretics have begun to manifest and are spilling across the sector. Immediate authorization for Maximum Purge Protocols is required. Handle everything swiftly and silently before the 'Eyes' of the Central Authority take notice. Report ends."
The name 'Omega' was a title the tank crews and inner-circle soldiers understood all too well. It signified the "End"—the finality of all things. It had quickly become his identity, a symbol of ruin and destruction. To Omega, the name felt fitting; he left nothing but catastrophe in his wake, making him as dangerous to his enemies as he often was to his allies.
Inside the cramped belly of the tank, a dry, raspy laugh crackled through the comms.
"Heh... Maximum Purge Protocols again?" the driver muttered, shaking his head. "Remember five years ago? We spent three days and nights 'rooting out' those cultists in the ventilation shafts until our treads were choked with gore. This time feels like it's going to be even worse."
"At least we've got Omega at the helm," the gunner added with a touch of gallows humor. "Better us handling this quietly than letting the Inquisition find out and having them burn the entire Hive to kill a single ant."The veterans within the tank knew that in this brutal Imperium, keeping such bloody secrets was often the only way to keep millions of others breathing. They knew the devastation would be absolute if word of this ever leaked out.
The engine roared to life, spewing thick
plumes of black smoke as the tank began its journey back to the stronghold at the heart of the Korvax domain.
Within the narrow, vibrating cabin of the Leman Russ Punisher, the smell of engine oil mingled with the lingering scent of ozone around Omega. He sat apart from the others, tucked into a shadowed corner. His single glowing purple eye, visible through the gaps in his bandages, stared fixedly at the steel walls, yet his mind saw something else: a complex, three-dimensional schematic of the Hive City.
In his ears, a high-pitched whistling—inaudible to normal men—shrieked incessantly. It wasn't the engine. It was the cacophony of whispers from the Warp, that twisted dimension of madness.
"Release me... Omega... this power belongs to you... just a flick of your mind, and the world will kneel..."
The seductive, malevolent voices clawed at his psyche, searching for a crack to inhabit the flesh of this rogue psyker. A weaker man would have screamed or surrendered to insanity—or worse, become a living gateway for the Warp to spill into the physical world. But Omega simply brushed it aside, trying his best to ignore the itch in his soul.
"Just say yes... power is within your grasp. You will never have to be a fugitive or a ghost again..."
Shut up, you parasites, he thought with icy irritation. His mental wards were as unyielding as forged steel. I have a mission to do, and it doesn't involve listening to your nursery rhymes.
He pulled his focus back to tactics. Omega closed his eyes (though one remained perpetually covered) and began cross-referencing Corporal Cassian's report with his own observations.
The Thalric sector had been dark for a full day. That meant power was either cut, sabotaged, or—more likely—diverted. A massive energy draw could suggest a ritual, or perhaps it was just the sheer
incompetence of Lord Thalric, who refused to rebuild after the war, choosing instead to dump his wealth into the Ecclesiarchy to build statues and cathedrals. The latter seemed more plausible.
The enemies they had encountered were mere brainless heretics—decoys meant to bleed the Korvax of ammunition and focus. The real threat would be hidden in the deepest, most secure bunker. There were only a few locations in the Lower Hive strong enough to hold such a presence; likely the Great Lift area. However, that was usually heavily guarded. Given the state of things, it was doubtful any Thalric soldiers remained alive there. He felt a nagging suspicion—usually, during such outbreaks, civilians would be fleeing in terror, yet throughout their patrol, there hadn't been a single report of refugees.
"If they intend to open a rift to pull something through... they will need conduits and a massive amount of sacrifice," Omega muttered, tapping his armored knee rhythmically. He imagined the horrors awaiting the unfortunate civilians—torture, enslavement, or becoming playthings for the depraved before being offered as ritual fodder. Speculating further was useless; he needed a plan.
"You are clever, Omega. Accept my offer and you shall be transformed by true power," the daemonic voices hissed again. He ignored them.
Phase 1: Since the enemy numbers were currently manageable, containment was the priority. All entry points from Thalric to Korvax territory must be fortified with physical barricades, automated turrets, and heavy troop deployments.
Phase 2: Seal all ventilation systems. Let them choke on the stagnant, toxic air. He realized they might not even need to do this; the other side hadn't repaired their vents in a year, and the toxins from the ruined factories had likely already rendered the air lethal to normal humans.
Phase 3: Deploy the Purge Squads with heavy ordnance... or perhaps, seek Valen's permission to use Forbidden Weaponry to resolve the matter with maximum efficiency, regardless of any remaining civilian life.
"Sir? We're approaching the Command Base," the driver's voice broke through his thoughts. Omega opened his eyes. The purple glow beneath his bandages dimmed slightly, but the ruthlessness in his gaze remained.
In the dim light and rumbling thunder of the tank returning to base, the exhaustion of overextending his psychic gifts began to take its toll. Omega could no longer resist the tide of memories rushing back. His eyelids grew heavy, and as he drifted, reality was replaced by a vision—a chaotic blend of a bitter past and a dark future.
Whoosh...
The smell of oil vanished, replaced by air charged with electricity, the scent of burning, and the copper tang of despair.
Suddenly, a vision of a chaotic future flashed before him. He saw the fires of war engulfing Cadia. Cadia was burning... not a normal fire, but a war more violent than any before. He saw the brutal struggle between the brave men and women of the Cadian Shock Troops and a tide of heretical traitors. He saw... a massive black silhouette falling from the sky. Cadia fell. A gargantuan rift tore the galaxy in two, accompanied by the silent scream of billions of souls.
"Gasp!"
Omega jerked awake in the tank, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked through his bandages. He clutched his head, which throbbed as if it might burst. His hands shook. He had just witnessed an apocalypse—a disaster that would shatter the galaxy. He felt utterly powerless, too weak to interfere, and yet he knew he had no business meddling in such cosmic fates.
"The future... is changing..." he whispered into the darkness. The final vision was blurred, but the feeling of horror was vivid. The coming war wasn't just about the petty politics of Hive nobles; it was a galaxy-level cataclysm.
"I must warn him... even if I cannot change much." Omega's eyes hardened. His loyalty to the man who had pulled him out of hell drove him to do everything to ensure his master's safety. He would find a moment to tell Valen.
But not now. He had to deal with the immediate threat.
As the Leman Russ moved through a narrow alley flanked by crumbling skyscrapers, the silence was shattered by the screech of an anti-tank rocket plunging from the shadows.
"AMBUSH!!!" a voice screamed amidst the sudden chaos.
Before the rounds or the rocket could strike the soldiers perched atop the tank, Omega's eyes snapped open. He focused with every fiber of his being, the veins at his temples bulging. He thrust his hand forward, expanding his will to cover the area instantly.
Vringggg!
A dome of translucent, deep purple psychic energy erupted around the tank and the surrounding troops. Heavy stubber rounds and the rocket slammed into the barrier, detonating in a shower of sparks and fire. But they could not penetrate the mental wall, which stood as firm as a fortress bastion. Omega gritted his teeth, sweat trickling down his brow as he bore the weight of the impact.
"Hold the line! I can't keep this up for long!" Omega roared.
Seizing the opening, the Tank Commander popped out of the hatch, slapping his helmet and shouting with fury.
"You heretic filth! Turret to eleven o'clock! Use the Punisher Gatling Cannon—shred them all! Sweep the area, leave nothing but dust!"
Brrrrrrrttttt
The six-barreled cannon spun with a high-pitched hum before unleashing a torrent of massive shells capable of shredding light armor and infantry alike. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness continuously, obliterating the buildings used by the snipers until they were nothing but perforated rubble. The screams of the heretics were drowned out by the thunderous, continuous roar of the gun.
"Does it hurt? Just give in. Say the word. Say 'Yes'. Accept my sweet offer," the daemonic voices echoed in his mind while he maintained the shield.
Omega bit his lip harder, forcing his concentration elsewhere.
Under the protection of Omega's psychic shield and the devastating firepower of the Punisher, a losing battle was transformed into a slaughterhouse within seconds.
The heretics who survived the initial barrage fled into the shadows.
When the Punisher finally fell silent and the masonry stopped crumbling, Omega exhaled a heavy, ragged breath. The purple shield dissipated, and he slumped against the steel interior of the tank. His gloved hands trembled. He had to exert every ounce of willpower to suppress the shrieking of the Warp that tried to seep in while he was vulnerable.
He knew his power was a double-edged sword. As an unsanctioned psyker who had never undergone the Soul-Binding ritual before the Emperor on Holy Terra, he lacked the proper mental fortifications. Every time he tapped into his power, it was like screaming into the void for daemons to find him. It drained his life force far more than it would a trained Scholastica Psykana initiate. He knew that one slip, one moment of weakness, and he would become a walking disaster.
"Sir? Are you alright?" the loader asked, his voice laced with concern, though he didn't dare touch him.
"I'm fine... just the 'engine' running a bit hot," Omega replied hoarsely, wiping a trail of blood from beneath his bandage. If he told them the truth of what he faced, he would be met with even greater suspicion and fear, which served no purpose.
As he sat to regain his composure, a thought took hold—born of a survivor's paranoia. The ambush had been too coordinated for mindless cultists. They knew the patrol route, the timing, and they had heavy weaponry that the lower classes shouldn't possess. After the war ended, Lord Valen had enforced draconian measures to control such arms; even the remaining gangs were stripped of so much as a stub-pistol.
"The Thalrics..." He gritted his teeth, staring into the dark. "It's impossible for weapons of this grade to escape a Governor's notice. Unless... they let them slip on purpose. Or handed them over themselves."
The possibility that House Thalric was "breeding" or supporting these heretics to undermine Korvax power grew heavier in his mind. This wasn't just a riot of the starving; it was a blood-soaked political betrayal.
Or perhaps just unforgivable negligence.
"When we reach base... I must speak with Lord Valen immediately," Omega whispered to himself, his gaze turning cruel. "I hope the situation isn't worse than I fear."
He hauled himself up, standing firm once more. Despite the physical toll of his psychic exertion, his vengeful spirit was wide awake. The tank rumbled onward through the gloom, heading toward the command center to report a truth that might soon set the Hive City ablaze.
As the Leman Russ Punisher rolled into the armored bay within the Lower Hive command center, the engine's roar died down to a low hum of cooling systems. Omega stepped off the vehicle with a steady stride, though the fatigue from the visions and psychic strain still haunted him.
He walked past the mechanics, Tech-Priests, and guards, who all lowered their heads and averted their gaze. None dared meet his eye. Omega headed straight for the communications hub at the innermost part of the base—a restricted area for high-level personnel.
Inside the hub, surrounded by the chirping of Vox signals and the glow of green monitors, Omega sat at a private data-slate station. He pulled off his leather gloves, revealing scars on his fingertips from psychic backlash. He began typing his summary of the day's events with cold, swift precision.
[CLASSIFIED REPORT: TO LORD VALEN KORVAX]
[FROM: OMEGA]
[SUBJECT: OPERATION RED PURGE AND THREAT ANALYSIS]
"Mission at the Thalric border partially concluded. Encountered a heretical incursion consisting of individuals who have entirely lost their humanity. They are not mere hungry laborers; they have been altered into weapons with a clear objective."
Omega paused, his single eye glinting with malice as he struck the keys to emphasize his suspicion.
"During an ambush on our return, I found evidence of heavy weaponry used against the tank. In our jurisdiction, such weapons could not have been obtained. The only logical conclusion is that House Thalric is complicit and arming these heretics. I am reporting a Priority One risk: I believe House Thalric is committing treason. They are fostering this rot as a tool to bleed your forces, or worse, they have joined the cult themselves."
"I believe their silence over the past year was not incompetence, but a cover-up. I propose we initiate 'Excision' protocols immediately, before what they are hiding grows beyond my ability to strike down."
He hit the Transmit button. The data was encrypted and sent directly to Valen's private office.
Omega returned to his quarters and slumped into his chair. He removed his circular red glasses, revealing the glowing purple iris—the mark of a Cadian. His mind raced through countless plans, each more inhumane and ruthless than the last. His conscience had died long ago on Cadia. The only thing sustaining his twisted soul was being the most efficient tool for the man who had saved his life.
Later, he summoned the squad leaders of the Purge Units to the war room, bathed in the red light of a holomap. Omega stood tall before the digital planning table, surrounded by the Korvax military elite, including Corporal Cassian.
"Listen well," Omega's voice was low and commanding. "What we encountered last night was not a riot. I believe it is a probing attack by heretics with backing. Though it is a grave accusation, the evidence of their weaponry speaks for itself. Our Lord requires his domain to remain secure and untouched by this filth."
He pointed to a red dot on the border.
"Squad leaders, adjust your deployments as follows: We will triple patrols in every sector bordering Thalric territory. No more six-hour rotations. Squads will patrol every four hours. Every unit must have a Vox-operator and high-frequency eavesdropping equipment active at all times."
"I am authorizing the deployment of Automated Heavy Sentry Turrets from the armory. Place them every 100 meters along the border gates. Establish anti-tank teams on the upper watchtowers. If anything moves across the border without the correct code... destroy it immediately. No reporting necessary."
Alert Level: "Raise to 'Maximum Alert.' Anyone found neglecting their duty or sleeping on watch will answer to me personally."
Several soldiers swallowed hard at the final sentence. The purple light beneath Omega's bandage flared as if to remind them he wasn't joking.
"Most importantly," Omega stared at each of them. "Watch the Thalric side. If you see them evacuating resources or laborers deeper into their sector, report to me instantly. We will not let them prepare if war breaks out."
"Understood, sir!" the leaders shouted in unison.
"Dismissed... and remember: there is no mercy for the heretic."
Once they had left, Omega remained alone, staring at the map. He knew this deployment was just buying time. The real war was waiting behind the veil of silence in the Thalric sector. He would do whatever it took to ensure House Korvax was the one left standing.
In the dead silence of his dark, cold quarters, Omega collapsed onto his narrow steel bunk. His sigh echoed in the void—the sound of a man carrying a burden too heavy for any mortal.
The war to purge the Genestealers, which ended only a year ago, had left scars everywhere—not just on the planet's surface, but deep within his soul. Omega knew better than anyone that the current peace was a fragile illusion. If he or Valen hesitated, or if his report was ignored, a new, more twisted war would consume everything.
But as he tried to quiet his mind, his body began to betray him
The physical agony came first—a burning sensation racing through his veins as if a million ants were devouring him from the inside. The "craving" for the narcotics he once used to drown out the daemons during his time in the Cadian slums returned with a vengeance. His muscles spasmed, and a cold sweat soaked his back. Though he hadn't touched the substances in years, the hell in his blood never truly left.
And as his body weakened, the whispers from the Warp surged.
"Omega... look at you. So pathetic..." A thousand overlapping voices droned in his mind, raspy and screeching like metal on glass. "Just accept us... and you shall have pleasure beyond imagination. You won't have to carry the weight of this world anymore..."
"Just say one word. Say 'Yes'. And everything you desire is yours."
Omega gritted his teeth so hard he could hear them click. His throat was parched, his body shaking with conflicting desires.
Yet, he was still Omega... a man who had walked through hell on earth.
He sat as still as stone, taking deep breaths and utterly ignoring the voices. He let the agony gnaw at him without moving. He knew these voices were real, but he had ignored them his entire life, and he would ignore them until the end. The withdrawal was simply the penance he had to pay for his wretched past.
He sat in the dark for a long time, letting the pain peak before it slowly subsided, leaving only an exhaustion that bit into his bones. He wiped the sweat from his face with a steadier hand.
Suddenly, another vision struck him—more violent than the rest. It wasn't just a glimpse of the future; it was a memory so vivid he could smell the blood and the stench of decay.
It began with the purple eyes of a Cadian, but they were clouded and distant. He saw his younger self leaning against a filthy slum wall—one of the few places he could find on this world. His shaking hands held a vial of cheap narcotics. While the skies of Cadia were filled with the majestic drills of the Kasrkin, he was just forgotten trash—an addict with no future in a world that only valued soldiers.
The vision shifted to the moment his life ended and began anew. At first, he was being beaten by thugs. In that moment of terror, his power awakened for the first time. His younger self had slaughtered them brutally with psychic force without even realizing what he was doing. Someone reported the "incident," labeling him a psyker. He was hunted—not by local police, not by Witch Hunters, but by the Inquisition's Ordo Hereticus, who sensed the massive, unstable energy erupting from him.
He fled until he was cornered in a dark alley. Two giant figures in gleaming silver armor appeared. At the time, he didn't know what they were, but he later learned they were Grey Knights—the Imperium's ultimate daemon hunters. They stepped forward with power blades to eliminate the threat: an unstable, uncontrolled mutant like him.
Driven by absolute terror and the instinct to survive, the young Omega let out a scream that didn't come from his throat, but from his soul. Warp energy surged past the limits of human endurance. The air itself buckled into a vacuum.
CRACK!!!
In that split second, the two silver knights—warriors meant to be invincible—simply shattered into a spray of blood and shrapnel before him. The destructive force was so great it nearly tore the veil between reality and the Warp, almost pulling daemons through. Fortunately, his own fractured, maddened mind acted as a shield, preventing anything from possessing him.
The vision spun rapidly... ten years of being the hunted. Fleeing from planet to planet, hiding in the bowels of cargo ships, living like a rat in the vents to escape the tireless Inquisition. Finally, fate cast him to the edge of the galaxy, in Segmentum Ultima, on this very world.
He saw himself in a wretched state, working among the lowliest laborers of the Hive, his body skeletal and covered in scars from his flight.
Then, on the day he was ready to give up, Valen appeared. Valen's retinue drew their weapons, sensing the strange aura around him, but Valen raised a hand to stop them.
Valen looked deep into the purple eye that wasn't yet bandaged. Valen's gaze held no disgust, no fear of the "witch" he had encountered for ten years. It was a gaze that recognized Power.
"You are not a freak..." Valen's voice echoed in the vision, firm yet full of intent. "You are the most potent resource I have ever seen. Come with me, and I will give you a place where you no longer have to run."
Omega snapped awake from the vision, his breathing heavy. He touched the bandage over his eye, noticing a slight smear of blood. He forced his eyes shut. He had to rest; if he didn't, he couldn't do his duty
___________________________________________
Day 352, Year 987, 41st Millennium
Hive Kathion
Upper Hive
The next morning in the residential district of the Lower Upper Hive, the light from the massive iron-mounted luminaries flickered on, signaling the dawn of a new day. Eric felt that today was the best day he had experienced since being stranded in this mad world. At the very least, the stomach pains that had plagued him were completely gone. A sense of freshness returned, giving him the energy to face his tedious job and continue his normal life with some semblance of happiness—save for his chest and forehead, which still felt tight and throbbed with a dull ache whenever he moved too suddenly.
After work, Eric decided to head to a small commercial district to purchase a "portable microwave." It might have seemed like a luxury in a world consumed by perpetual war, but for Eric, who craved the warmth of the Old World, the prospect of eating warm bread or heated canned meat was far better than enduring the daily grind of chewing on cold, bland rations.
However, he ended up with an electric oven instead. He didn't mind; perhaps he could use it to make biscuits or bakery items.
"Hmph... heavier than I thought," Eric muttered to himself as he cradled the oven box in both arms while trudging up the building's stairs. Dressed in his work clothes, Eric struggled to balance the weight. Although his height of 175 centimeters gave him enough leverage to lift it, the narrow and steep staircase left him panting. He nearly tumbled down several times because the box blocked his view of the steps.
Upon reaching his room, he let out a long sigh of relief. He nudged the door open with his foot and carefully placed the oven on a folding table by the window.
"Phew... finally."
He stood with hands on his hips, breathing heavily as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He scanned his room; it remained exactly as he had left it. Eric began to unbox the oven calmly. He used a clean cloth to wipe it down before setting it in its permanent place.
"If only I had some good flour and some jam, that would be perfect," he whispered to himself with a small smile.
He walked to the window and looked at the view below. There wasn't much to see beyond rows of buildings and the masses of people scuttling about. Though a part of him remained paranoid about how long this peace would last—especially given the strange rumors of troop movements in the Lower Hive he had heard that morning—he chose to ignore those worries for now. He was afraid of another war, but at this moment, he refused to let it consume him.
"Alright... let's test this thing," Eric murmured. But first, he needed to change.
Eric changed into a loose t-shirt and soft fabric trousers, ideal for relaxing in his private quarters. He let himself unwind, no longer needing to worry about his appearance as he did when he was out in public.
He stood and examined the problematic "oven" on the folding table. Its appearance defied his Old World ideal of an appliance. It was a thick, rectangular iron box with a rough texture, stamped prominently with the cogwheel crest of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It looked like an antique from the Industrial Revolution mixed with religious superstition. Yet, in another sense, it possessed a strange, archaic high-tech charm.
"Alright, let's see what you can do." Eric attempted to press the large red start button that seemed the most straightforward... but it remained silent. There was no sound of a cooling fan, nothing.
"Eh? Is it broken?" Eric let out a small gasp of fear, considering he had paid quite a high price for it. He frantically inspected the device until he found a "manual"—a thick roll of parchment. He unrolled it to look for troubleshooting tips, and that was when he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in sheer exasperation.
The manual stated clearly that before initiating the work of the Machine Spirit, the user must perform a 'prayer' and 'anoint it with sacred oil' (which came in a tiny included vial), followed by a chant of praise to awaken the machine from its slumber. This ritual had to be performed daily.
Are you serious? Just to turn it on? he grumbled internally. He found it absurd that in an age of lasguns, bionics, holograms, and starships, he still had to pray to a toaster. However, not wanting his credits to go to waste, Eric reluctantly complied.
He picked up the tiny oil vial, dabbed a bit onto the chassis, and began to mumble the prayer according to the manual. It was written in High Gothic, a language he didn't know, but fortunately, there was a phonetic guide.
"Uh... O Omnissiah, grant power to this machine. May its operation be smooth and protect it from all malice..." Eric chanted haltingly.
As he prayed, he felt an intense wave of embarrassment. He imagined how his friends from the Old World would laugh if they saw him like this. But here, this was likely perfectly normal
Click!
As soon as he finished the prayer, the oven's display panel flickered to life with a hum, as if the machine were satisfied with the ritual.
"Okay... so you don't just need electricity; you need attention too," Eric sighed, smiling at the dark irony of this world.
He turned the machine off temporarily and went to retrieve a tin of meat, arranging the pieces neatly on a tray. Eric carefully slid the iron tray into the bulky machine. He tried to gauge the heat by turning a knob marked with cogs and strange numerical symbols he didn't recognize, but he managed to find a setting that seemed close enough to what he wanted.
"Alright... this should do it." His hands shook slightly as he turned the dial and closed the oven door with a heavy clack. He pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of the oven, staring through the small, cloudy glass pane with a sense of excitement he couldn't quite describe. To anyone else, it was just heating food, but for Eric—who had spent his Old World life relying on convenience stores, microwaves, and fast food—this felt like a major step in "cooking" for himself.
Though, he couldn't quite call it "cooking" in good conscience; it was more like glorified reheating.
He watched the oven, trying to count down the five minutes he had set. One part of him feared the oven might explode or burn the food, but the other part was desperate for a warm meal.
"Only five minutes, Eric... don't get too excited," he told himself. He sat staring at the faint orange glow radiating inside the oven. The scent of the meat reacting to the heat began to waft out, making him feel a sudden pang of hunger.
When the five minutes were up, Eric used a thick towel to protect his hands and cautiously opened the oven door. A light steam accompanied by the savory aroma of meat hit his nose. He had been holding his breath, fearing it would be burnt to a crisp, but fortunately, the result looked better than expected. The Grox meat on the tray had darkened slightly, glistening with rendered fat. It wasn't dry or charred like he had feared.
"Excellent..." he whispered happily. He lifted the tray onto the table and carefully shut the oven according to the steps in the manual. Then, he grabbed his spoon and the bread he had bought.
Eric used the spoon to scoop up the warm Grox meat, eating it with the slices of bread he had laid out. The taste brought a gentle smile to his face. Grox meat had a firm, rich texture similar to beef from the Old World but with more chewiness. Although it was slightly salty canned meat, the heat from the oven elevated the flavor incredibly—it was incomparable to the flavorless nutrient gruel most workers ate, and certainly better than the dreaded "corpse-starch."
He chewed slowly, savoring this small moment of happiness. The warmth from the meat and bread spread through his body. The anxiety and exhaustion from his job in the warehouse accounts department seemed to melt away for a moment.
"Better than I thought... if only I had some pepper or spices to sprinkle on top, it would be amazing."
His words made his eyes spark with a bit of excitement. He began to plan: tomorrow after work, he would visit the local market to see if he could find a spice vendor or other ingredients to improve his meals.