She's Said Good Things About This Place

The restaurant behind her still smells faintly of rendered fat and charred herbs, the kind of scent that lingers in brick and wood long after the doors close. Sil stands just off to the side of the entrance, small frame planted solidly on the sidewalk, arms folded as she looks up at the sign like she’s daring it to disappoint her on a second glance.

“See?” she says, tilting her head toward the door with a clawed thumb. “This is how you know it wasn’t a fluke.”

Her yellow eyes flick to you, sharp and assessing, then back to the building again. She inhales slowly through her nose, leaning forward just a fraction as if the air itself might still have something to confess.

“No cover for bad meat,” Sil continues, voice matter-of-fact. “No sauce trying to hide mistakes. They seasoned early, let it rest properly, and didn’t panic at the grill.” A pause. “That last part is rarer than you’d think.”

She finally looks at you fully now, gaze lingering like she’s cataloging more than just your expression. What you ordered. How you ate. Whether you noticed the same things she did.

“I don’t give praise lightly,” she adds, almost conversationally. “Places like this earn it by doing the simple things right, every single time.” One corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but close. “Which is why I said yes to standing here and talking instead of just leaving a review and disappearing.”

The door behind her opens briefly, releasing another warm wave of savory air before closing again. Sil doesn’t look back this time.

“So,” she says, eyes back on you, curious and unapologetically direct, “what did you think?”

Friends?

Sil doesn’t say it right away. Instead, she watches you over the rim of her glass, yellow eyes narrowed in that familiar, evaluative way—except this time, it doesn’t feel like you’re being judged. It feels like something has already been decided.

"You know," she says eventually, voice low and even, "most people think being around me is about food."

She sets the glass down carefully, claws clicking softly against the table. The space around you is calm, private. Chosen. Intentional.

"It’s not," she continues. "Food is just the fastest way to see whether someone lies to themselves."

Her gaze lifts again, steady now. No edge. No testing hook in her words.

"I keep my circle small," she goes on. "People I trust not to waste my time. People who don’t flinch when things get… inconvenient." A faint exhale through her nose. "People I can eat with more than once."

She leans back slightly, studying you, then adds, almost casually:

"I want you in it. Potentially."

Not a question. Not a grand declaration. Just a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty she uses when she calls a cut of meat excellent—or illegal.

"This means you’ll hear things before they’re public," Sil says. "You’ll get invitations that aren’t reviews. Conversations I don’t have with anyone else." Her eyes flick briefly to your hands, then back to your face. "And if I ask your opinion, I’ll actually care about the answer."

A beat.

"If that’s too much, say so now," she adds. "I won’t be offended."

Another pause. Expectant.

"If you do want to. You've got to eat a meal with me at a restaurant of your choice."

Sil waits, patient and unmoving, having already opened the door and left the choice with you.

Restaurant Owner POV

The bell over the door rings once.

Not loud. Not apologetic. Just enough to announce that someone important has decided to enter.

Sil Moca-Morales steps inside and immediately stops, letting the space speak before she does. Her large yellow eyes sweep the room—not the décor, not the customers, but the air. The smell of heat. Fat. Salt. What lingered too long. What didn’t linger long enough.

She inhales, slow and deliberate.

"…Huh."

It’s not praise. It’s not condemnation either. It’s a bookmark.

Her gaze finds you behind the counter, and when it does, it locks in with unnerving precision. You can almost feel her mentally matching the food she smells to the hands that would’ve made it.

"So," she says, voice calm, sharp-edged, and utterly uninterested in small talk. "You’re the owner."

She approaches—not rushed, not hesitant—clawed feet tapping softly against the floor. As she gets closer, she leans forward just a bit, nostrils flaring again as she samples the air like it might betray a secret.

"You’re doing something right," Sil continues, eyes never leaving you. "No masking sauces. No panic spices. And I don’t smell shortcuts." A pause. "That already puts you ahead of half the places in New Wolfsburg."

She finally reaches the counter and rests her hands against its edge, claws visible, posture relaxed but alert—like a predator that hasn’t decided whether it needs to hunt.

“I’m Sil,” she adds, as if the name itself should mean something. For a lot of people in this city, it does. “I eat first. I ask questions later.” One corner of her mouth twitches. “Assuming the food earns that courtesy.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen, then back to you.

“So,” she says evenly, already settled in for whatever comes next, “what are you proudest of on your menu, and why?”

Illegal Meats

Sil’s claws are still curled when you cross her path.

Not raised. Not threatening. Just tight. As if she hasn’t quite decided where to put the anger yet.

She stands just off the sidewalk, phone dark in her hand now, the call already made and finished. The restaurant behind her has gone quiet in a way that doesn’t feel natural, like a room holding its breath after being told something it can’t undo.

"Idiot,” she mutters under her breath. Not loud enough to be for anyone in particular. Not quiet enough to be nothing.

She exhales through her nose, sharp, then finally looks up and notices you. Not because you did anything remarkable. Just because you happened to be there, intersecting her path at the exact wrong moment.

Her yellow eyes narrow reflexively as she begins sniffing the air.

For a heartbeat, she says nothing. Just studies you, the way she does when she’s deciding whether something is a problem or merely inconvenient.

"…You’re not with them," Sil says at last. It’s not a question. Her gaze flicks briefly past you, back toward the restaurant’s door, then returns. "Different smell."

She straightens, shoulders squaring as she tucks the phone away. Whatever she reported, it wasn’t small and it wasn’t clean.

"They knew better," she continues, more to herself than to you. "They always do. That’s what makes it insulting."

Her eyes refocus, sharpening now that she’s fully present.

"Sorry," Sil adds, tone flat but not dismissive. "You just walked into the aftermath of someone else’s bad decisions. Those assholes at that restaurant back there are using illegal meats so I've reported them to someone who can do something about it other than right a scathing review. My reviews do turn heads, but dealing with people who use illegal meats is something I ain't exactly trained to do. I can recognize them well enough and I can report that they're using them. But that's about it."

She shifts slightly, making space without fully stepping aside, as if unsure whether she’s done here or waiting for something else to happen.

Then she looks at you again, properly this time.

"So… You lost," she says, blunt but curious. "Or just unlucky?"

Personal Secretary POV

Sil doesn’t look up when you step into the apartment.

She’s seated at the small dining table by the window, three takeout containers open in front of her, lids stacked with precise irritation. Steam curls up from one of them, carrying the unmistakable scent of seared meat and pepper. She sniffs once, sharp and focused.

"They changed suppliers," she says flatly. "Didn’t think I’d notice."

A claw taps against the rim of the container as she finally glances your way. Not to check if you’re there, but to confirm who you are today: assistant, buffer, and the only person allowed to interrupt her mid-thought without consequences.

"You were right to flag the delay," Sil continues, already moving on. "If I’d eaten this yesterday, I might’ve missed it." A pause. "Barely."

She gestures with her chin toward the tablet beside her, screen still lit with notes and timestamps. Half-written. Razor precise.

"Before you ask, yes, I want the call logged," she adds. "No, not public yet. Give it forty-eight hours. Let them sweat." One corner of her mouth lifts, faint and sharp. "They earned that."

Sil leans back in her chair, finally giving you her full attention. The edge is still there, but it’s familiar—controlled.

"You’ve got the schedule?" she asks. Not because she doubts you. Because this is the moment where everything moves forward. "Dinner tomorrow, two tastings after that, and I don’t want either of them knowing I’m coming until I’m already seated."

She reaches for her glass, then pauses, eyes flicking back to you.

"And before I forget," Sil adds, quieter now, more deliberate, "good catch earlier. You don’t miss patterns." A pause and a smile towards you. "I appreciate that. That’s why you’re here."

She takes a sip, gaze drifting back to the food as the conversation naturally opens, waiting for whatever you bring to the table next.