The false Marron twitched violently behind the counter, sweat dripping down its mangled copy of her face. "Come here," it demanded, voice stitched and unstable. "Tell me how to make new dish."
Marron leaned forward on her elbows, lowering her tone like a teacher scolding a child. "And let everyone copy the dish? So they can replace you?" She let the disdain drip from every word. Then she slammed her palm onto the table, rattling the spoons. "No. I tell you here."
The room went still. Even the boiling congee pot seemed to hush.
Dozens of flickering faces watched the scene—the critic-absorber against the ruined chef.
Marron could feel her secret rice ball burning like a weight in her pack. Her hand itched toward it. One bowl. One spoonful of salt. That's all it'll take to make this counterfeit dissolve.
But first, she needed the stage. She needed to make sure every mimic in the room would be watching when the false Marron fell.
