Chapter 3: The Midnight Snack
The Midnight Snack’s neon sign buzzed like a trapped insect, a weak pink smear against the black sky. It was past eleven. The diner was a ghost of itself, a few truckers hunched over coffee at the counter, the vinyl booths mostly empty. Victor sat in the back corner, shredding a paper napkin into a damp pile. He’d been waiting twenty minutes.
He saw him before he heard him. The door swung open with a gust of cool, concrete-scented air, and Minalan filled the frame for a second, backlit by the parking lot lights. He was in grey sweats and a hoodie, his hair damp, skin glowing from the shower after his late conditioning session. He spotted Victor and weaved through the empty tables, dropping into the booth with a heavy, exhausted sigh.
“Coach is trying to kill us,” Minalan said, leaning his head back against the vinyl. He closed his eyes. “Full sprints till puking. I think Marks actually did.”
“Building character,” Victor said. His voice was steady. He’d rehearsed this. “You need to replenish. More than just food. The body breaks itself down to build back stronger. You need the right… materials.”
Minalan opened one eye. “I’m gonna get a triple bacon cheeseburger. That’s the right material.”
“After.” Victor reached down beside him on the bench seat and lifted a large, stainless steel travel cup onto the table. It made a soft thud. “Made you a recovery smoothie. Casein protein, creatine, branched-chain aminos. The good stuff. Drink it now, before you eat the grease. It’ll help with the soreness tomorrow.”
Minalan looked at the cup, then at his father. A flicker of something—not suspicion, but a mild, weary annoyance. “Dad, come on. I just wanna eat.”
“This is eating. This is what your body is screaming for. You think those truck stop eggs are gonna repair your micro-tears?” Victor kept his tone light, practical. The voice of a concerned parent, a former athlete himself. He unscrewed the lid. The smoothie inside was a pale green, thick as mud. “Drink it. Then you can order the whole menu. My treat.”
He’d prepared it just before leaving, in the kitchen blender. Banana, spinach, almond butter, a hefty scoop of chalky vanilla protein. And then, standing over it, he’d added his own contribution. This time, it wasn't a rushed, covert act in the dawn kitchen. This time, he’d taken his time. He’d thought of the gym, of the way Minalan’s sweats had clung to the curve of his ass as he’d bent over the water cooler. He’d produced a load that was dense, copious, stirring it into the cold mixture until it vanished. A more substantial investment.
Minalan sighed, the sound of a boy too tired to fight. He took the cup. “Fine. Medicine.” He put it to his lips and drank.
Victor watched. This was the moment. The diner’s tired air, the faint clatter of plates from the kitchen, the smell of old coffee—it all receded. There was only the working of his son’s throat, the slight flex of his jaw. He drank deeply, gulping it down. Some of it glistened on his lower lip.
Victor leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table. He pitched his voice low, almost conversational, but with a new, deliberate weight. “You know, a lot of guys at the gym, they just pour chemicals into themselves. Isolate this, synthetic that. They forget what a body really craves. What really… binds to the muscle. Builds from the inside out.”
Minalan lowered the cup, halfway empty. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, listening but not really, his gaze drifting toward the plastic menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser.
“It’s about a deeper nourishment,” Victor continued, the words feeling dangerous and smooth in his mouth, like stones he’d been polishing in secret.“Something primal. A complete biological signature. Not just fuel, but… a blueprint. From someone who shares your DNA. Who understands what your body is, because it’s a reflection of his own.” He let that hang in the greasy air between them.
Minalan’s eyes snapped back to him. There was a pause. A slight crease appeared between his brows. Not understanding, not yet, but the weird specificity of the words had landed. “You’ve been reading too many weird fitness blogs, Dad,” he said finally, but the usual easy confidence in his voice was gone. It was flat.
He looked down into the half-empty cup. The pale green surface was smooth, unbroken.
“It’s just science,” Victor said, relaxing back into the booth, a faint smile playing on his lips. He’d said it. The idea was out, camouflaged in pseudo-biology, but out. Planted in the open air between them. “Drink up. Every drop. Can’t waste the good stuff.”
Minalan hesitated. For three long heartbeats, he just stared into the cup. Then, as if shaking off a chill, he lifted it again and finished it, draining the last of it with a grim efficiency. He set the empty cup down with a definitive click.
“Good,” Victor said, warmth flooding his chest, a dark, blooming satisfaction. He picked up a menu.“Now. Triple bacon cheeseburger, you said?”
But Minalan wasn’t looking at the menu. He was staring out the window at the dark parking lot, his expression unreadable. He absently ran his tongue over his teeth, as if tasting something he couldn’t quite identify. Something familiar yet foreign, lingering under the banana and vanilla. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shiver.
“Yeah,” Minalan said, his voice distant. “Yeah, burger sounds good.” He didn’t move to pick up his menu. He just kept staring out into the night, his body very still.