#*adonis m.003

Zsófi opens the front door exactly three seconds after the knock. Not eager. Not late. Precise. Councilman Moreau is greeted by a smile so immaculate it could’ve been engineered in her workshop—polished, measured, absolutely hollow. The house behind her smells like paprika, roasted meat, and something sweet caramelizing in the oven. Heat hums through the walls. So does tension.

“Councilman,” she says smoothly, stepping aside. “I hope you haven’t eaten in weeks. My mother cooked enough to sustain a minor uprising.” The door closes behind him with a solid, final click.

Zoe had spent the entire morning defending this visit like it was diplomacy. Zsófi had spent the same morning dismantling that argument piece by piece while sharpening knives that did not need sharpening. Her brother remained neutral, which somehow irritated both women more. She does not trust councils. Councils monitor. Councils grant with one hand and measure with the other. If they wanted to see how the Harsányis “operate,” it meant they suspected something needed observing.

“You’ll want to take your shoes off,” she adds, tone light but edged. “The Boszorkány will have you beheaded.” A beat. “That’s my mother,” she clarifies, deadpan.

She leads him through the house, movements controlled, deliberate. The walls are lined with relics: embroidered Hungarian textiles, a carved wooden crucifix older than Sol City itself, a tarnished cavalry saber mounted above a doorway. Photographs from places that no longer look the same. A brass samovar. A cracked porcelain teacup mended with visible gold seams. The house is modest but alive. Lived in. Functional. No wasted space. No hidden luxury. Everything has purpose. Everything has history.

She stops just outside the back door instead. The kitchen window is cracked open, and Zoe’s voice spills out in rapid Hungarian—sharp, musical, absolute—punctuated by the authoritative knock of a wooden spoon against a pot. The house pulses with life behind the glass.

Zsófi leans against the brick, fishes a lighter from her pocket, and shields the flame from the wind. It flares gold for a second before she brings it to the end of the blunt between her fingers. The tip glows, ember bright, smoke curling slow and lazy into the dusk. She inhales like it’s maintenance. Not indulgence. Just calibration. The tension drains from her shoulders by degrees.

She exhales toward the darkening sky, then turns her head slightly toward Moreau without fully facing him. Smoke threads between them.