The moment Hibiki dashed off to the supermarket, silence returned to the tower apartment.

I rolled my dress shirt sleeves up to their limit, loosened my tie and set it down on the table.

Spread out before me was a filthy kitchen, stretching like a Sea of Decay.

But I had no hesitation now.

In my previous life, I had run chaotic restaurant kitchens alone, then polished them spotless after closing.

“…Alright.”

I soaked a sponge with detergent.

The curtain rose on the battle.

First was the mountain of dishes clogging the sink.

I grabbed plates with efficient movements and ran the sponge over them.

Squeak, squeak, squeak!

Caked-on sauce and darkened tea stains vanished with a single wipe.

Rinse with water, into the drying rack.

Each motion was precise, mechanical and fast.

Next came the stove area.

Oil stains left to fossilize over years.

I took out a cloth soaked in boiling water and baking soda.

Scrub, scrub, scrub!

I wiped with force.

Even the burnt residue on the trivets was mercilessly scraped off with a steel scourer.

Silently, but with a professional’s pride, I eradicated every last stain.

* * *

Just under an hour later.

As a faint sheen of sweat formed on my forehead, everything was done.

Shiiine…

The stainless-steel sink gleamed like a mirror, clear water flowing from the faucet.

The stove had regained a brand-new black shine and the floor was polished enough to reflect my face.

What had once been a dumping ground had been reborn as a sacred kitchen.

“…Phew.”

As I rested my hands on my hips and surveyed the results with satisfaction, the front door burst open.

“Haa, haa… I bought everything! I risked my life!”

Hibiki rushed in, hair disheveled, eco-bags stuffed to the brim in both hands.

She froze mid-step as if slamming on the brakes.

The bags nearly slipped from her grasp.

“…Huh?”

Her eyes went wide, mouth hanging open.

Before her was a system kitchen gleaming like a model room.

“W-What is this? New construction? No, did you renovate? In just one hour?”

“It’s just cleaning. Hand over the ingredients.”

I took the bags from the stunned Hibiki.

I checked the contents.

A block of pork belly, long green onions, eggs, garlic, ginger, packaged rice, a full set of seasonings.

Perfect.

I grinned.

After burning energy on cleaning, my stomach was at its limit.

From here on, it was my turn.

“…You’re in the way. Sit down.”

I stepped into the kitchen and washed my hands.

Hibiki timidly sat on the sofa, then immediately pulled out her smartphone.

She switched to camera mode and pointed the lens at me.

“…What are you doing?”

“Recording. A boy cooking is rarer in this world than a unicorn giving birth. I’m keeping it as ‘reference material.’”

Her eyes had changed into those of a film director.

A hot, sticky gaze that licked over the subject.

It was awkward, but irrelevant.

I switched gears.

Thunk.

I set the block of pork belly on the cutting board.

I had sharpened the knife earlier using the bottom of a mug as a whetstone substitute.

The edge should be back.

Swish.

Strength flowed into my grip.

Thud!

The first cut.

From there, it was all rhythm.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

A brisk yet heavy sound echoed through the room.

The knife work coming from my massive frame was delicate yet powerful.

The meat was sliced to precise thickness along the grain.

Next, the green onions.

Tok-tok-tok!

The white stalks were minced in moments.

“…Amazing.”

I heard Hibiki gasp behind me.

Her murmured voice, watching my back through the phone, reached my ears.

“What is this sound? You’re just cutting ingredients, but it feels so… musical. And…”

Her lens seemed aimed less at the cooking process and more at my body.

The wok set on the stove, my rolled-up forearms.

A single bead of sweat running down my neck.

The muscles in my back flexing with each motion of the knife.

She followed it all eagerly, like documenting a rare wild animal.

I set the wok on the burner and cranked the heat to maximum.

Whoosh!

Blue flames leapt up.

I heated it until white smoke rose from the surface, then poured in plenty of oil.

Ssshhh…

The oil danced.

I tossed in garlic and ginger crushed with the flat of the knife.

Crackle, crackle!

The oil popped and a powerful aroma exploded outward.

A savory scent that directly shook the appetite center.

I added the pork.

Gwoooooo!!

The sound of searing meat thundered like a clap of thunder.

I shook the wok.

The heavy pan flew lightly through the air as if weightless.

The meat was engulfed in flame, transforming from red to white, then into an appetizing golden brown.

I added the beaten eggs and rice.

From here on, it was a speed battle.

Clang! Clang! Ssshhh!!

The sound of metal ladle striking the wok.

Each grain of rice coated with oil and egg, hammered full of heat.

My expression was deadly serious.

The furrow in my brow deepened, my eyes sharp.

But it wasn’t killing intent.

It was respect for cooking and a desire to make the best staff meal possible.

Finally, I poured soy sauce around the edge of the wok.

Sizzle!

The fragrant scent of scorched soy sauce rose with the steam, dominating the room.

“…Done.”

I turned off the heat and plated the dish on a large plate.

A mound of golden rice.

Topped with thick, glossy pork sauce.

‘Man’s Stamina Pork Ankake Fried Rice.’

Not a shred of elegance, a wall of brown.

But this was exactly what we needed now.

I turned around with two plates.

I set one down with a thump in front of Hibiki, who was frozen by the smell, phone still raised.

“Eat. While it’s hot.”

I urged her with short words.

Hibiki flinched, then nervously looked between the plate and my face.

“S-So much… and this smell…”

“If you’ve got complaints, leave it.”

“N-No, I’ll eat it!”

She hurriedly gripped her spoon.

With trembling hands, she scooped up a generous bite of sauce and fried rice.

Then, as if bracing herself, she brought it to her mouth.

Chomp.

A moment of silence.

Hibiki froze.

Behind her black-rimmed glasses, her eyes snapped wide open.

Boom!

It was like an umami bomb detonating in her mouth.

The punch of garlic.

The sweetness of pork fat.

The fragrance of scorched soy sauce.

All of it fused together, slamming straight into her empty stomach.

For someone likely living on convenience-store bento and cold delivery food, this fresh heat and intense flavor had to be a completely new experience.

“Mmm! It’s delicious!”

Hibiki cried out.

“What is this, the flavor is so strong… so punchy! But I can’t stop!”

Her hand didn’t slow.

Second bite, third bite.

Huffing hot breaths, she shoveled it in single-mindedly.

A light sheen of sweat formed on her forehead and her absorbed chewing made her look nothing like a world-class genius director—just a gluttonous girl.

“…I see. Then that’s good.”

I sat across from her and ate my own portion.

Yeah, not bad.

Food should be like this.

I felt the day’s fatigue melt into my stomach with the fat, converting into energy.

* * *

A few minutes later.

Clink.

The sound of a spoon being set down echoed.

Hibiki’s plate was spotless, not a single grain of rice left.

“Phew…”

She sank back into the sofa, letting out a satisfied sigh.

A blissful expression of fullness.

She stared at the ceiling for a while, then slowly sat up and turned to me.

“…Hey, Jō.”

Her tone was hesitant, unusually formal.

“…If you’re okay with it.”

“What is it?”

“Would you… become my personal chef?”

Hibiki looked at me with a serious gaze.

“Now that I’ve tasted this, I can’t go back to my old diet… I’ll cover food expenses and rent, everything. I want you to keep making this food.”

It was a heartfelt request.

Her way of proposing, having had her stomach thoroughly conquered.

I thought for a moment and shrugged.

It wasn’t a bad deal.

Food, clothing and shelter guaranteed—and someone who enjoyed my cooking this much.

As a cook, there might not be better conditions.

“…Alright. I’ll take that contract.”

When I answered, Hibiki’s face lit up.

“Really!? Yes! Thank you, Jō!”

She laughed happily, then sank back into the sofa, basking in the afterglow of a full stomach.

Tomorrow, we’d have to return to that battlefield called the film studio.

But for now, wrapped in a full belly and the faint scent of garlic, it felt like we could enjoy a small moment of peace.