You pray for good weather, don’t you, Anton?

[Elysium. Nero moves slowly through Anton Savor’s kitchen — sunlight glaring off spotless steel surfaces.]

The clear sky, the steady light… That perfect balance that makes everything seem alive.

[He runs a fingertip along the counter.]

But perfect days don’t yield much, do they? When the sun never relents, the earth hardens and the soil forgets how to drink.

You can plant a hundred seeds in that kind of earth, but they’ll never learn to reach for anything.

[Nero picks up a tomato from a nearby bowl — turning it in the light.]

Once upon a time, Arcadia was told that endless light was salvation; sunshine was purity. That if you just kept smiling long enough, the shadows would stay away.

But too much light dries the fruit before it ripens. It makes sweetness shallow and brittle.

It might seem flawless on the surface, but inside it’s empty — and you of all people should understand that. That growth needs contrast. It finds its form in the night — in the chill of rain when the first drop falls.

That’s where real flavour is born. In the struggle — not the comfort.

The finest ingredients are the ones that had to fight for their place. That pushed through stone and storm just to taste the sun.

[He opens a pantry door. Rows of perfect jars stare back — untouched and orderly.]

But your kitchen tells another story, doesn’t it? Everything here is flawless… Polished. Disciplined.

Preserved.

But whilst they may look perfect, there’s no life in them. Your shelves are stocked with survivors that never had to struggle to exist.

All shine, no soul.

Perfection without a pulse.

[Nero turns on a tap. A weak dribble of water trails down the sink.]

Sunshine? It keeps the clouds from gathering and calls it mercy, but really, sunshine is just a zookeeper — trapping life behind glass, feeding it just enough light to stop it from moving.

You thrive on that same light, Anton. It keeps your counters immaculate and your plates pristine, but it starves your craft — because when the rain finally falls everything shifts.

Roots twist deeper. Flavours grow richer.

The world turns messy — and that’s where truth awakens.

[He slices the tomato — flesh pale and dry.]

You’ve built your art on fair weather, Anton. Every edge precise; every surface shining.

But beauty isn’t life. One day you’ll open your pantry, reach for something real, and realise it never had a chance to become what it was meant to be.

That it only ever basked in the light — waiting to be chosen.

Never daring to change.

[Nero glances up as a low rumble of thunder dims the light in the room.]

Maybe that’s been your plan all along? A world that never ripens.

A chef who never has to scrub a soiled knife.

[Tiny drops of rain patter on the windowsill.]

Whereas me? I’ve seen what comes after the drought.

I’ve seen what wakes when the light finally fades and the rain remembers where to fall — and that Anton…

[He looks out toward the rain — a faint glow breaking through his calm.]

…is when the real cooking begins.