Isabelle kicked the door closed with her foot as Azzy bounced ahead, her tail wagging like a spring-loaded metronome. The apartment was quiet, save for the muffled hum of Lumora City filtering through the balcony window. Isabelle dropped her bag by the couch and sighed, loosening the ribbons—one purple, one pink—from her layered black hair.

  Azzy chirped enthusiastically, hopping onto the couch with a plop as Isabelle shook out her hair. The faint scent of vanilla shampoo drifted through the room as she ruffled the strands back into place.

  God, I look like a Mismagius crawled out of the woods. Whatever, no one’s here to judge.

  She kicked the ribbons aside and slid across the hardwood floor in her socks, momentum carrying her right into the kitchen. It was a skill she’d perfected as a kid, though the slightly-too-loud thud that followed made her cringe. Smooth, Isabelle. Real smooth. Azzy chirped from her side, sensing the familiar rhythm of their home routine.

  The recipe book sat on the counter where she’d left it last night, the worn leather cover a faded reminder of the woman who’d once owned it. Isabelle ran her fingers over the embossed title, “éclairs to Escargots,” her lips pressing into a thin line.

  Leave it to her to disappear and leave me a legacy of béchamel sauces. Thanks, Mom.

  She shoved the thought aside, flipping to the dog-eared page for Chicken Fricassée. Her fingers hesitated over the familiar handwriting in the margins—her mother’s meticulous notes on timing and seasoning. She hated how much she’d learned from them. Hated how, despite everything, they had shaped her cooking instincts.

  Azzy’s tiny paws pattered against the counter, her round body pressing against Isabelle’s arm as if sensing the shift in her mood. Isabelle exhaled sharply, setting her jaw. “Alright, Azzy. Time to show these city folks what real cooking looks like.”

  The kitchen was alive with movement as Isabelle set to work, her hands flying with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. The knife in her hand glinted under the warm kitchen light, slicing effortlessly through an onion. The rhythmic thud against the cutting board was almost meditative, grounding her in something familiar. Back in Verdantia, this wasn’t a hobby; it was survival. You either cooked, or you ate bland cereal for dinner. No contest there.

  She’d struggled with cooking at first, back when she was too small to even reach the counter without a stool. Her grandmother had been the first to teach her—patient, steady, guiding her hands through the motions. And her mother... her mother had taught her through presence alone, through sharp corrections and wordless gestures. Even now, she could recall the way her mother’s hand would tighten just slightly when Isabelle wavered while cutting something. An unspoken demand for precision.

  And now, here she was, moving through the steps like second nature, hating the fact that she had inherited this particular skill so well.

  Azzy had decided to help, rolling a napkin across the counter like it was some grand feat of teamwork, chirping with delight every time Isabelle turned to look. Isabelle chuckled, pausing to ruffle Azzy’s head. “Alright, sous-chef. You’re in charge of quality control.”

  The sizzle of butter filled the air, followed by the rich aroma of chicken searing in the pan. Azzy pressed herself closer to Isabelle’s side, her round body warm against Isabelle’s arm. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe not.

  As she stirred the thickening sauce, her gaze flickered to the city lights beyond the window. The skyline was alive, but to her, it still felt hollow. She knew she wasn’t the only one who had come to Lumora for their Pokémon journey—most people weren’t actually from here. But somehow, that fact didn’t make her feel less like an outsider. It just made her wonder if anyone here ever truly belonged.

  The sauce reached the perfect consistency, clinging lightly to the back of her spoon. She tasted it, her expression shifting into one of deep contemplation. “Almost perfect,” she muttered. A squeeze of lemon. Another taste. A satisfied smirk. “Nailed it.”

  The sound of keys jingling outside the door broke the serene rhythm of the apartment. Isabelle looked up from the table, where she was meticulously aligning the cutlery Azzy had rolled. She smirked. “Perfect timing, as always.”

  The door creaked open, and émile stepped inside, his coat slung over one shoulder and a tired yet familiar warmth in his eyes. He paused in the entryway, inhaling deeply. “Is that… Chicken Fricassée I smell?”

  “Sure is,” Isabelle called from the kitchen. She slid the last plate onto the table and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  émile chuckled, setting his bag down and kicking off his shoes. “Remind me to thank whatever deity blessed me with a daughter who can cook better than half the chefs in Lumora.”

  “Please, don’t exaggerate.” Isabelle rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the flicker of pride that warmed her chest. “I’m not that good.”

  émile walked into the dining area, shrugging off his coat and draping it over a chair. “Izzy, you just spent the day meeting a Pokémon professor and still managed to whip up a dish that smells like something out of a Kalos five-star restaurant. I think I’m allowed to exaggerate.”

  Isabelle snorted, busying herself with the last-minute touches on the table. She seriously didn’t think she was that good, not really—but then again, wasn’t that what everyone said about something they’d done for so long that it just felt normal? Cooking had always been second nature to her, something she did because she had to, because she loved the process, not because she thought it made her impressive. But still, a part of her—a small, buried part—knew she was better than she let herself believe. “Well, dig in before it gets cold. Azzy’s been eyeing the sauce like she’s planning a heist.”

  They ate, sharing easy conversation, but there was a moment—just a flicker—where émile’s gaze lingered on her, something unreadable in his eyes. Concern? Pride? Maybe both. It was gone before she could place it, replaced by his usual easygoing grin.

  The trio settled at the table, émile raising a brow at the neatly arranged napkins and the perfectly plated servings. “You didn’t just make dinner—you made an event out of it.”

  “It’s called ambiance, Dad,” Isabelle teased, sliding into her chair. “I figured you could use a little luxury after your day.”

  émile sighed as he took his first bite, his eyes widening slightly. “Okay, I take it back. This isn’t just good—this is phenomenal. Seriously, Izzy, you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Isabelle shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even as a pleased grin tugged at her lips. “It’s just chicken and sauce. Not exactly life-changing.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” émile replied, gesturing with his fork. “You’ve got a knack for this. You always have. Remember those nights back in Verdantia? You were barely tall enough to reach the stove, but you’d still insist on helping.”

  “Yeah, well…” Isabelle twirled her fork absently. “You had work, and someone had to make sure we didn’t starve. Plus, cereal for dinner isn’t exactly inspiring.”

  “Hey, I thought I was doing pretty well with my infamous fried egg sandwiches.”

  “Sure, if you like rubbery eggs and half-toasted bread.” Isabelle snickered, taking a bite of her own food. “You’re lucky I took pity on you.”

  The shared laughter filled the small space, a comforting sound that softened the weight of the day. émile leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he looked across the table at his daughter. “So, how’d it go with Professor Ardene?”

  Isabelle paused mid-bite, her mind flashing back to the stern yet encouraging woman who had expertly walked the line between challenging and reassuring. “It was… intense,” she admitted, setting her fork down. “She’s sharp, like really sharp. It felt like she could see straight through me.”

  “That’s kind of her job, isn’t it?” émile asked with a smile. “She wouldn’t be a professor if she didn’t know how to read people.”

  “Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Isabelle said, leaning forward. “She asked a lot of questions, made me think about things I hadn’t really considered. Like why I want to do this. What I expect to get out of it.”

  “And?” émile prompted gently.

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  “And I don’t know,” Isabelle admitted, her voice quieter. “I mean, I want to try the League Circuit, but it’s not like I have some grand plan or anything. Half the time, I don’t even feel like I belong in this city, let alone out there battling Gym Leaders.”

  émile’s expression softened, and he reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “Izzy, you don’t have to have it all figured out right now. The journey isn’t about starting with all the answers. It’s about finding them along the way.”

  Isabelle blinked, her father’s words settling in her chest like a comforting weight. Why does he always have to be right?

  “And besides,” émile added, a glint of humor in his eyes, “you’ve got Azzy. That’s a pretty solid start.”

  Azurill chirped in agreement, puffing out her chest proudly. Isabelle laughed, the knot of uncertainty in her stomach loosening just a bit. “Yeah, I guess we make a pretty good team.”

  They finished dinner amidst light conversation, émile sharing stories from work while Isabelle recounted her time at the Professor’s lab. The atmosphere was warm, the apartment filled with the sounds of clinking dishes and the occasional laugh. For a little while, Isabelle allowed herself to forget about her doubts and focus on the simple joy of being home.

  As she cleared the table, émile leaned against the counter, watching her with a fond smile. “You know, Izzy, no matter what you decide, you’ve got me and Azzy in your corner. And if you need advice—real advice, not my terrible sandwich-making skills—you can always come to me.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Isabelle said, her voice softer now. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good.” émile ruffled her hair as he passed, ignoring her half-hearted protests. “Now, I’m going to collapse for the night. Try not to make me too jealous of your energy, alright?”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she watched him settle into his usual spot. Maybe I don’t have everything figured out yet, she thought, glancing at Azzy, who was busily trying to roll a napkin across the floor. But at least I’ve got this. And that’s not a bad place to start.

  The bathroom was small but cozy, illuminated by warm, soft lighting. Isabelle moved through her nightly routine with the ease of repetition, tying her hair back with a simple ribbon before washing away the day’s remnants. Steam curled against the mirror as she massaged a lavender-scented cleanser onto her face, relishing the brief moment of quiet.

  Of all the things I’ll miss about the city if I ever leave, it’s the ridiculous number of skincare products. They’re probably draining my wallet, but hey, at least my face isn’t falling off.

  She rinsed her face and patted it dry with a plush towel before meticulously applying moisturizer. As she caught her own hazel-eyed reflection, a flicker of doubt surfaced. Do I actually look ready to take on the League Circuit? A soft scoff escaped her. If they gave out ribbons for ‘Most Overwhelmed Rookie,’ Azzy and I would sweep the competition.

  Her hair, now free from ribbons, had already begun to tangle in defiance of exhaustion. She combed through it with practiced strokes before weaving it into a loose braid. Next came brushing her teeth, the rhythmic motion almost meditative as Azzy waddled into the bathroom, chirping her apparent approval at Isabelle’s progress.

  “What? You think I’m doing a good job?” Isabelle smirked, foam trailing at the corners of her mouth. Azzy spun in response, her tail bobbing like a metronome before bouncing back out, clearly satisfied.

  Finished with her routine, Isabelle made her way to her bedroom, pulling open the wardrobe in search of comfort. Her favorite sweatshirt—a soft cotton pullover featuring a cherry blossom-themed Cyndaquil—hung in its usual spot. The design always made her smile; the small Fire Pokémon curled under a blooming tree radiated both warmth and quiet strength. She slipped it on, pairing it with matching pastel pajama shorts before neatly folding her daytime clothes and setting them aside.

  Stepping into the living room, she found Azzy already bouncing near the couch, tiny feet leaving faint impressions on the throw rug. “Alright, alright, I’m coming. You’d think you were the one with a big day tomorrow,” Isabelle teased, settling onto the couch and pulling her VireBand off the charging dock.

  She tapped at the screen, leaning back as Azzy curled up beside her. The Cyndaquil print on her sweatshirt wrinkled slightly as she tucked her legs beneath her. The news feed refreshed with familiar headlines—League Circuit registration updates, Gym Leader commentary, and the occasional feature on smaller Pokémon events happening across Virelia.

  Later that night, as she scrolled through her VireBand, a headline caught her attention: “Rising Tensions Between Gym Leaders Kai Zephyr and Kieran Ignatius Over Circuit Strategy Debate.”

  Wow. Two big egos don’t agree on something. Shocking.

  She clicked on the article, scanning through the ongoing debate. The discussion wasn’t just about battling styles—it was about the structure of the League itself. Gym Leaders, League officials, and even sponsors had their own opinions on how the Circuit should evolve. Should travel restrictions be loosened to make the journey safer? Should there be a standardization of difficulty between Gyms? Some argued that the unpredictability of each Gym’s challenge was part of the League’s charm, while others pushed for a more balanced approach to give all trainers a fair shot.

  Then another article caught her eye: “Virelia League Sponsors Open Enrollment—Top Trainers Could Secure Major Endorsements.”

  She frowned slightly. It wasn’t just about battles. The League was an entire ecosystem of politics, business, and branding. Gym Leaders weren’t just mentors; they were public figures, sometimes even minor celebrities. The most promising trainers weren’t just fighting for badges—they were fighting for sponsorships, financial backing, and long-term careers. Major corporations funded elite trainers, securing brand deals that stretched far beyond the battlefield. Top-tier challengers got early access to exclusive training facilities, specialized gear, and even advertising opportunities.

  Isabelle sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She’d never really thought about the League that way before. Sure, winning battles was one thing, but was she really ready for everything else that came with it? The spotlight, the expectations, the politics? This wasn’t just some fun adventure—it was a career path, and one that demanded just as much strategy outside the battlefield as within it.

  Then, a post from BraixenVivi flashed across the screen, and Isabelle’s pulse skipped. She tapped on it without hesitation, half-expecting a live stream, but instead, it was an event announcement.

  “Collaborative Event Alert!” Vivi’s polished logo shimmered at the top, accompanied by a sleek banner of Gleamshore City’s Contest Hall. The post detailed Vivi’s participation in an exclusive berry-making event, featuring some of Gleamshore’s most renowned contest connoisseurs. Isabelle’s jaw tightened.

  "The one time she makes a public appearance…" she muttered, resisting the urge to groan. This was practically historic.

  She skimmed further—Vivi would be demonstrating techniques for performance-enhancing berry blends, working alongside industry professionals to refine recipes used in Pokémon Contests. Isabelle slumped back into the couch, running a hand through her hair. I need to be there. If Vivi was offering hands-on advice, missing this was like skipping an Arceus-sent miracle.

  Her mind drifted to the last time Vivi had been in the public eye—her commentary at the Regional Conference. Isabelle could still picture it vividly: Vivi’s energy electrifying the audience, turning every battle into something larger than life. She hadn’t just narrated—she had made people feel the weight of each move, the stakes of each decision.

  Isabelle exhaled sharply. Seeing her in person… That would be surreal.

  Azzy chirped from beside her, nuzzling against her arm. Isabelle absentmindedly scratched the Azurill’s head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Well, it’s not like we’re hopping a train to Gleamshore tomorrow, huh? Maybe someday."

  As the evening waned, she let the newsfeed fade into the background, pulling up the Orbital Clique’s group chat.

  [Orbital Clique Chat]

  Amélie: "GUYSSSSSS. I just saw Vivi’s event post! Tell me this isn’t real!! ??"

  Clara: "its real. so r travel costs lol. gleamshore aint close."

  Milo: "Not the point. The point is: Vivi. In person. This is HUGE."

  Amélie: "Clara, stop crushing dreams! I wanna go SO BAD ????."

  Isabelle: "Same. But like… reality check? Tickets? Hotels? Money in general?"

  Elliot: "Vivi’s not going anywhere. Focus on tomorrow."

  Isabelle rolled her eyes. Elliot, as always, was the first to see the message. He barely ever replied, but when he did, it was always short and to the point.

  Clara: "wow. elliot bein practical. wild. izzy dont u got that professor thing tmrrw?"

  Isabelle: "Gee, thanks for the reminder. I was TOTALLY forgetting about my slow descent into anxiety hell."

  Milo: "Ohhh, right. So… what did Professor Ardene say? You haven’t told us yet."

  Amélie: "YEAH. You met Ardene today and didn't lead with that?! Girl, spill."

  Isabelle: "It was… intense. She’s ridiculously sharp. Felt like she could see straight through me."

  Clara: "that’s kinda her whole deal. did she give u the whole ‘why do u wanna be a trainer’ speech?"

  Isabelle: "Yup. And I still don’t have an answer."

  Milo: "You’ll figure it out. Nobody has it all sorted at the start."

  Amélie: "Milo’s got a point! You’ve already come so far, Izzy."

  Clara: "i mean. shes got azzy. that counts for somethin."

  Elliot: "You’ll be fine."

  Isabelle blinked at the screen. Elliot had sent two messages in one conversation? That was rare.

  Amélie: "You’ve got this, Izzy!! ??? And when Vivi eventually comes to Lumora, we’re all going. End of story."

  Clara: "k. ill mark that next to ‘league stops bein a popularity contest’ lol."

  Amélie: "Ugh, Clara, you’re impossible ??."

  Milo: "Focus. Izzy’s got a big day tomorrow. Vivi can wait."

  Isabelle chuckled, shaking her head as she set the VireBand down. Azzy hopped up beside her, curling into her lap, her tiny body warm and familiar. Isabelle absentmindedly stroked her fur, her mind drifting toward the day ahead. Tomorrow’s uncertainties loomed, but for now, with Azzy’s steady breathing and the soft hum of the city outside, she allowed herself to sink into the moment.

  Whatever tomorrow held, it could wait until morning.