Morning came like clockwork.
Julian woke before dawn, trained as usual—martial drills, stretches, breathing—then headed downstairs to meet Mageed.
The two rode side by side through the cool Hamburg air, bikes whispering across slick pavement.
Same route. Same rhythm.
Routine was its own kind of comfort.
Mist coiled low over the quiet streets, catching in the light of old lampposts. The city hadn't yet stirred, but its pulse was there—hidden in the distant rumble of trams, the scent of dew, the crisp clarity of a northern dawn.
At the campus, they parked near the racks and slipped into the canteen, trays in hand.
The smell of steamed eggs, grilled chicken, and oats drifted through the air.
Julian scanned his card, stepped forward, and picked up his plate—balanced, as always: high protein, moderate carbs, light fat.
Mageed's looked almost identical… except for one missing element.
The diet police was waiting.
