Ke Ming slumped on the floor, palms braced behind him, his body leaning back as if he might topple over at any moment.
He gulped air in huge, ragged breaths.
His arms and legs felt boneless. His hands wouldn't obey him.
"Not bad," the Head Chef said as he walked over. "Barely passable."
He grabbed Ke Ming by the collar and hauled him upright.
Crack.
Before Ke Ming could even process what was happening, the boy's head tore free completely. The round, limp skull was tossed into a corner like trash.
Blood erupted in a hot spray, splattering across Ke Ming's face.
The Head Chef used the tip of his knife to pry at the torn artery in the neck, brought it close, and sniffed.
"Tch. I knew I shouldn't let a newbie handle it right away," he muttered. "The ingredient's ruined."
He pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at the time.
"Brat. Come to the back kitchen."
Ke Ming nodded like his soul had been scooped out. He dragged his body after the Head Chef, breaking into a shaky little run just to keep up.
The first floor was much cleaner than upstairs. A floor-to-ceiling glass wall divided the space into two halves, so diners could clearly watch every movement the cook made in the kitchen.
The back kitchen was fully equipped—pots, pans, ovens, steamers, everything.
On the other side, tables and chairs were scattered in a filthy mess, greasy grime clinging to them in thick layers.
Yet the tableware was immaculate: metal forks and knives, bowls and plates white as porcelain, not a single stain anywhere.
"Some customers don't trust the ingredients," the Head Chef said. "They come in all the time and make trouble."
He piled the meat chunks onto a cutting board and rapped the counter with the flat of his blade.
"Now it's transparent. Open. Public. Fixers come to pick fights a lot less."
He clicked his tongue, then muttered under his breath, almost sulky.
"Shame. Means fewer high-grade ingredients, too."
Ke Ming didn't have the energy to respond. The way the boy had looked right before dying was still burned into his eyes. He nodded numbly, his expression hollow.
Thud!
The Head Chef shot Ke Ming a glance—saw he was drifting—and kicked out with his right leg.
A spike of pain exploded in Ke Ming's abdomen. Weightlessness hit him, then his back slammed into something hard.
He was launched clean off his feet and smashed against the wall.
His body, already weak from blood loss, swam with dizziness. A metallic taste surged up his throat. He spat out a mouthful of saliva streaked with blood.
"Brat," the Head Chef said coldly, "if you work here, you listen."
Ke Ming propped himself up with both hands, barely steadying his body. Pain blurred his vision in waves.
"Stand up."
Agony crushed his mind—then tore him awake again. The moment he heard the order, his body moved on instinct. He forced himself upright, teeth clenched, and squeezed a single word out like it was being ripped from his throat.
"…Yes."
Satisfied, the Head Chef turned back, humming a tuneless little melody.
He deboned. He pulled sinew. His hands moved with nimble precision. Meat that had been ragged and uneven quickly became orderly, lined up neatly in rows.
Whole veins were stripped out and piled to the side.
He flipped the sign outside so the side that read OPEN faced out, then rubbed his hands together.
Before long, an ugly man in tattered clothes shuffled inside, leaning close to the glass wall's service window and craning his neck to look around.
"What's the deal? Open late today?"
"Processing fresh ingredients," the Head Chef replied without looking up. "More important than opening."
"I don't give a damn about your ingredients," the man snapped. "Same as always—one serving. Money's not the issue."
"…You're back?" The Head Chef paused, seeming genuinely surprised, and looked over his shoulder.
"You bet!" The man grinned smugly and waved a prosthetic arm that looked straight out of a steampunk catalog.
"Paide Workshop's good stuff. Snatched it off a bunch of metal lumps. Don't know what they did to get themselves in trouble, but the price tag wasn't low."
The Head Chef glanced at the man's showy prosthetic, then seemed to lose interest immediately and went back to work.
"Oy—so it really is new ingredients!" the prosthetic-arm man said, changing topics with sudden enthusiasm when the Head Chef didn't bite. He craned his head through the window again, spotted Ke Ming, and lit up. "What, you won't give your buddy a serving?"
Whip—
A sharp tearing sound snapped past Ke Ming's ear. A dull metallic clang rang through the glass.
The prosthetic-arm man had grabbed the cleaver the Head Chef threw at him. He went pale and hurriedly explained.
"Whoa, protective, huh? I was kidding! Don't take it personally, boss!"
The Head Chef silently closed his hand around the handle. His muscles tensed, veins bulging, as he dragged the cleaver back out of the man's grip inch by inch.
Then he turned away, wiped the blade clean, and continued his work as if nothing had happened.
The prosthetic-arm man, rebuffed, shrugged and pulled over a chair. He sat properly—almost obediently—though his eyes kept flicking toward the far side of the glass.
The meat went into the pot.
First, the skin was deep-fried in heavy oil until it turned a scorched golden brown.
Scallion and ginger were stir-fried until fragrant, then scooped out and set aside.
A thick layer of scallion was laid in the pot to keep the meat from sticking.
The meat was stacked in a dense layer, skin-side up.
Crushed ginger was added, then a large ladle of soy sauce, two ladles of cooking wine, a little rock sugar, and finally boiling water.
The lid went on.
A slow simmer began.
About two hours later, it was ready.
The aroma flooded the entire restaurant. At some point, the dining area on the far side of the glass had become packed—every seat filled, and a line had even formed at the door without anyone needing to be told.
The skin gleamed—translucent and glossy. The white fat had been dyed the same deep red as the sauce.
Ke Ming stood dazed in the corner for two full hours.
It was obvious now: this was the dish the Head Chef had fed him last night.
It was delicious—so delicious that "tasty" didn't even come close to describing it.
If you could accept what it was made from.
Ke Ming didn't even have time to gag.
His vision went black.
He fainted.
-------
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