The one twisting Rogers's ear was a beautiful woman of about one meter seventy. Her pure-white chef's uniform perfectly outlined her voluptuous figure, and her golden hair was neatly tucked into her chef's hat. Though there were faint traces of age on her face, they only added to her mature charm, a kind of ripened allure. Sweat trickled down her forehead from the heat of the kitchen. She was stunning, no doubt—but at the moment, Rogers was far too busy writhing in pain to appreciate it.
"Forget it, I know you wouldn't dare slack off! Aiqi has already gone to take orders from the guests, so you go serve the dishes." The woman, whom Rogers called Mello, finally let go of his ear and began giving instructions.
"Yeah, yeah, I know already! Geez!" Rogers quickly rubbed his sore ear. Damn it, she never even twists the same one—yesterday she'd gone after the other ear!
"Serving's on you. And don't you dare slack off, or you know what'll happen." Mello smiled sweetly at him, but the dangerous glint in her eyes and the subtle motion of the hand that had just twisted his ear made the threat very clear.
"I got it…" Rogers muttered bitterly, face twisted into a grimace. He really wanted to complain about this place's labor practices. Oh, how he missed his old world's nine-to-five, eight-hour workdays…
"Better work hard! After all, who told you to eat so much? The more you eat, the more you work!" Mello's shapely hips swayed as she moved gracefully toward the busy chefs. It was obvious she was the head chef here. But after only a few steps, she turned back with a dangerous smile. "And one more thing—don't call me Auntie! I'm only twenty-nine years and two-hundred fifty-four months old!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Rogers tugged at the corner of his lips, forcing out a helpless smile. Inwardly, though, he couldn't stop complaining: This One Piece world is ridiculous! She's over fifty, but still looks barely thirty…
Before his thoughts could go further, someone interrupted. A chef came over, patted him on the shoulder, wiped the sweat from his brow, and placed two dishes on Rogers's serving tray. Without even lifting his head, he said, "These two go to separate rooms. The one on the left is for 307, the one on the right for 209."
Without waiting for a reply, the chef hurried off again—he had plenty more to do.
Rogers dropped his lecherous grin, placed covers over the plates, and lifted them—one in each hand—ready to deliver them. Both trays held several exquisitely prepared dishes. Even through the transparent covers, the sight alone made his mouth water. His stomach growled too. He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep working. They wouldn't get to eat until afternoon, unless they were lucky enough to sneak some leftovers from guests.
Rogers was probably the most pitiful of them all. His body seemed to get hungry ridiculously fast. Back in his old life, if he ate a late breakfast, he could usually last until afternoon. But now? After just a bit of work, he was starving again… practically a clone of Luffy, maybe even needing five meals a day!
Obediently, Rogers carried the trays up the staircase. The first floor of the passenger ship served as a dining hall for the guests, and after dinner it doubled as a kind of ballroom. The second floor and above were the guest rooms.
He arrived at the door of Room 209. Leaning in, he pressed his ear against it, using his sharp hearing to check for any sounds inside. This was a little trick he had developed himself. If he just barged in after knocking, and the guests happened to be… doing something special, he'd be in trouble. Forget about tips—he might even get thrown out.
Once he was sure the room was quiet, he rapped lightly on the door and said in his polite, formulaic tone: "Honored guest, your meal has been delivered. Could you please open the door?"
"Mhm! Sure thing. From your voice, you're a young man, aren't you? Come in yourself."
The response was a lazy, pleasant-sounding woman's voice. Rogers acknowledged softly, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
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