Chapter 94
Seasoned meat, fluffy rice, and a hint of sweet soy sauce curled through the air like an invisible hug. Even the walls seemed to lean in, eager for a bite.
Plates clinked. Steam rose like miniature smoke signals from the dishes.
The overhead light flickered once in protest—then decided, fine, it would contribute to the ambiance—and bathed the kitchen in a golden glow.
The earlier tension in the room didn't vanish, but it did take a coffee break.
Elijah sat at the end of the table like some half-retired war general, his plate a small mountain of dumplings and grilled meat, stacked with the precision of a man who'd fought too many battles to waste time with cutlery.
Jack was slouched beside Amy, poking a fried dumpling like it had personally insulted him.
"So," Jack said, fork poised like a fencing foil, "you're telling me this pink-haired kid dies and then comes back with a sword big enough to file a building permit?"
