Several days had passed since that press conference.

The living room of Hibiki’s tower apartment was now in a critical state, like the warning signs before an avalanche.

“…Hey. What the hell is with this mountain of paper?”

When I asked in utter disbelief, Hibiki turned around with eyes so bloodshot they looked ready to pop, the dark circles under them not quite hidden by her concealer.

“They’re all commercial appearance offers for Jō. Yesterday the agencies’ phone lines completely crashed and the servers went down.”

On the table, stacks of proposals were piled up like a small mountain.

On its opening day, the movie ‘Requiem of Iron and Blood’ recorded a rocket start that shattered all previous box office records.

Along with that, the level of public attention focused on me—Akutsu Jō, this so-called ‘unknown lifeform’—had skyrocketed to explosive levels.

“You can take your pick, Jō. Come on, which one do you want to accept?”

Hibiki snorted excitedly as she spread the proposals open.

Karen, sitting next to me and I started checking them one by one, but…

“What the hell is this?”

I frowned deeply as I looked at the first proposal.

‘Men’s Premium Esthetic — Snow White Course’
Catchphrase: ‘You too can have snow-white skin. Become a lovable man people want to protect.’

“Rejected. I’m not trying to turn into flour.”

I immediately tossed it into the trash and grabbed the next one.

‘New Lip Gloss — Cherry Boy’
Catchphrase: ‘The sweet-and-sour taste of a kiss. Magical lips that drop her in one hit.’

Briiip!!

Before I could even finish reading, Karen’s hand shot in from the side and tore the proposal to shreds.

“Don’t mess with us! Jō’s lips are mine! There’s no way I’m letting you sell them cheap on public airwaves!”

“…O-oh. Yeah, that’s right.”

Karen pulverized the paper scraps faster than a shredder and slam-dunked them into the trash.

I pulled myself together and looked at the third one.

‘Sexy Roomwear For Men’

The attached reference images showed a model wearing what looked like a sheer negligee made of scraps of fabric lavishly decorated with lace and frills.

You want me to wear that?

“I’d rather get arrested for walking around naked than put this on.”

“Oh? I’d kind of like to see it though?”

“Karen, you’re getting a lecture later.”

I let out a sigh and leaned back against the sofa.

“All of them… do they seriously see me as nothing but a ‘dress-up doll’ or a ‘pet’?”

In this world, there was no precedent for male entertainers.

Because of that, the companies didn’t know how to handle a man and were trying to shove me into existing boxes labeled ‘cute,’ ‘fragile,’ or ‘sexual object.’

I wouldn’t take jobs like that even if it killed me.

My pride wouldn’t allow it.

“Enough. The commercial talks are off. I’ll just go cook something and—”

That was when it happened, just as I was about to stand up.

“…Oh? This is rare.”

Hibiki, who had been digging through the pile of documents, pulled out a single proposal.

“It’s an offer from a major food manufacturer, ‘Sumeragi Foods.’ An ‘Authentic Frozen Chinese Series,’ apparently.”

“…Huh?”

My feet stopped.

Light returned to eyes that had looked like dead fish.

“Chinese food?”

“Yes. A commercial for their new ‘Juicy Oversized Gyoza’ and ‘Direct-Flame Fried Rice.’ The target audience is busy housewives and meat-loving women who want a hearty meal… or so it says.”

I snatched the proposal from Hibiki’s hand and devoured the contents.

“…Frozen fried rice, huh. You can’t underestimate modern freezing technology. The technique of coating each grain of rice in oil, moisture retention through rapid freezing… how close they’ve gotten to reproducing restaurant flavor in a home microwave…”

Specialized muttering spilled naturally from my mouth.

Then, the moment I saw the page with the directing concept, a grin twisted across my lips.

“Oh… ‘The man who wields a wok,’ huh.”

There was an image illustration of a man boldly swinging a heavy wok in a kitchen with flames roaring up around him.

“Heh, not bad. I doubt any of the scrawny guys in this world can handle a real wok though…”

A wok is heavy.

Not the light kind for home use—if it’s a professional iron wok, one or two kilos is normal.

Once you add ingredients, it can reach close to four kilos.

Continuously flipping that with nothing but wrist snap, sending rice flying through the air, isn’t something you learn overnight.

“If it’s me, I’ll show them a perfect ‘flip.’”

In my mind, the sound of rice sliding across the surface of the wok and the aroma of scorched soy sauce rising into the air played back vividly.

My blood stirred.

Not an actor’s blood, but the soul of a former chef screaming, ‘Let me handle it.’

“…Ah, you flipped the switch.”

“You definitely flipped it.”

Hibiki and Karen exchanged looks and nodded.

“Do it, Hibiki. Accept the offer.”

I slammed the proposal down onto the table.

“But there’s a condition. Let me taste the products first. If they’re bad, I’ll refuse and shove improvement plans right back at them. I can’t promote something that doesn’t have the maker’s soul in it.”

“Are you really a talent, or a development advisor?”

Hibiki laughed in exasperation, but quickly pulled out her phone with a serious expression.

“Got it. I’ll tell them, ‘Let’s see if it’s a flavor that can silence a man picky about cooking.’ That stance will definitely land.”

“Strike while the iron’s hot.”

I shrugged off my jacket and rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt.

“I’m hungry anyway. Let’s call this a rehearsal.”

“Huh?”

“I’m saying I’ll show you how it’s done. Today, it’s fried rice and gyoza!”

I strode toward the kitchen.

Ever since I’d basically moved in, Hibiki’s kitchen had been fully equipped with a high-power commercial stove and iron woks ‘which I’d bought on my own initiative.’

Bwooom!!

A pale blue flame roared to life from the burner.

Clang, clang, clang!

The light, crisp metallic sound of an iron ladle striking the bottom of the wok echoed through the living room.

“Oooh! Clap clap clap!”

“Jō! Make the gyoza with crispy wings, okay!”

Karen and Hibiki took up positions at the dining table, clapping like spectators.

I dropped eggs into the wok and, without pause, threw in white rice.

Jaaaah!!

The sound of oil exploding, steam billowing upward.

Each time I tossed the wok, golden grains of rice danced through the air, loosening and separating beautifully.

This was it. This weight and this heat.

More than being surrounded by any number of beautiful women, the moment I gripped the handle of this iron wok was when I felt the calmest.

“Alright, it’s up!”

A few minutes later.

On the table sat golden fried rice, each grain gleaming like a jewel and oversized gyoza wrapped in crackling, crispy wings.

““Itadakima—su!!””

The two beauties lunged at it with the ferocity of wild beasts.

Watching them chew with blissful expressions while blowing out hot breaths, I crossed my arms and nodded in satisfaction.

“Not a bad appetite. In the real commercial, they’ll need to eat it looking at least this good.”

The mountain of offers hadn’t been dealt with yet, but at least the direction was set.

I’m not a ‘dress-up doll.’

I’ll crash straight into living rooms as the strongest kind of man, one who wins with ‘food’ and ‘strength.’