The glass door of Dongbao Restaurant was slammed open, and Yan Zhi stumbled out. His once crisp white chef's uniform was crumpled into a ball, and his dark trousers were stained with mud. He stumbled to the parasol tree at the back alley, squatted with his back to the restaurant's brightly lit door, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably. The wind whirled with fallen leaves, and a heavy rain was imminent.
In the shadows at the alley entrance, Feng Jian's footsteps halted. The instruction "Find him" had been turning like rusted gears in his mind for days, and at this moment, it suddenly clicked into place—followed by a cold gravitational pull clutching his heart.
It's him.
As if hearing this silent confirmation, Yan Zhi suddenly turned around, his gaze locking firmly on Feng Jian. The two were like two malfunctioning radios, suddenly tuning to the same frequency amid the static.
Yan Zhi was thirty-three years old, the head chef of Dongbao Restaurant. This damned pandemic had also altered his genes, cruelly stripping him of the right to "be deceived"—no longer could he tolerate a single lie, endure the slightest pretense, or even allow himself the luxury of self-delusion. He had become a prisoner living in stark truth.
This morning, Li Wei's voice was sweet and cloying on the phone: "Honey, tonight's a girls-only gathering. You can order takeout yourself." But through the receiver, besides the crisp clink of knives and forks against bone china plates, there was also the deep, smoky timbre of a man's voice. He could even "see" Li Wei sitting by the window, her hair tucked behind her ears, her earrings shimmering faintly, while the man's hand rested on hers beneath the table.
These eyes that saw through the truth had become an inescapable torture device.
In Dongbao's kitchen this afternoon, the air conditioning was cranked up high, but it couldn't suppress the tension hanging thick in the air. The stainless steel worktops glowed coldly, and more than a dozen vacuum-sealed food bags were stacked neatly, the red label "Traditional Handmade" printed on them standing out sharply. Yan Zhi pressed his fingertip against a bag of "Ancient-Style Braised Pork" and could feel the hard grains of solidified grease. The shelf life printed on the bag read: 18 months.
Yesterday, at the new product launch event, Mr. Li patted his chest in front of the media cameras and vowed: "Dongbao Restaurant insists on stir-frying to order. Every dish is a work of art crafted with care by our chefs—we never use any pre-prepared ingredients!" Since being infected by that virus, Yan Zhi could no longer tolerate such lies.
"Chef Zhao, the Michelin jury will be here in half an hour," his assistant Xiao Sun's voice trembled. "Mr. Li instructed us to follow the 'special process'—after thawing and unpacking the pre-prepared dishes, we need to stir-fry them until they smoke, so the jury can smell the 'wok hei' (wok aroma)." Yan Zhi scanned the kitchen: several young chefs held bag openers, and vacuum-sealed bags of "Preserved Vegetable Braised Pork" and "Yu Xiang Shredded Pork" were piled aside, waiting to be poured into the hot woks to stage a "freshly stir-fried" show.
"Stop!" Yan Zhi's voice wasn't loud, but it hit the air like a stone dropping into water. The kitchen fell silent instantly, the young chefs' hands freezing mid-air, their eyes panicking.
Manager Wang hurried over, lowering his voice: "Yan Zhi, don't act up at a time like this! This is the Michelin review—we can't afford any mistakes!" "Act up?" Yan Zhi picked up the bag of "Ancient-Style Braised Pork," his finger tracing the red "Traditional Handmade" label. "Am I the one who's sick, or is the entire industry?" He turned to the frozen young chefs, his voice heavy. "Pre-prepared dishes themselves aren't wrong. Industrial production ensures consistent taste, reduces waste, lowers costs, and improves efficiency—this is progress. But why do we hide this progress under the pretense of 'handmade'?" "Since you know it's progress, stop messing things up!" Manager Wang interrupted impatiently. "Mr. Li said this is an 'industry unspoken rule'—everyone does it!" "Unspoken rules aren't rules—they're lies," Yan Zhi took a step back, holding up the bag of pre-prepared dishes. "The problem isn't with pre-prepared food, but why we're dressing industrial products in the cloak of agricultural civilization? Why are we making customers pay for handmade dishes and feeding them assembly-line food?" The kitchen door was pushed open. Mr. Li walked in with several men in suits, a smile plastered on his face: "Dear jury members, welcome to visit our open kitchen and see Dongbao's 'handmade craftsmanship'..." Before he could finish, Yan Zhi suddenly stepped forward, holding the bag of "Ancient-Style Braised Pork" up to the jury. He tore open the seal, and a smell of industrial freezing wafted out: "Dear teachers, welcome to visit Dongbao's 'real kitchen'—this is braised pork with an 18-month shelf life." The kitchen fell so silent that only the hum of the freezers could be heard. Some of the jury members frowned, and a bespectacled juror reached out to touch the frost on the bag, his eyes showing surprise. The reporters reacted quickly, their cameras all focusing on Mr. Li and the bag of pre-prepared dishes.
Mr. Li's face turned bright red instantly, but he forced down his anger and smiled: "Chef Zhao, what are you doing? This is our newly developed fresh-keeping technology—it's pre-processing, not pre-prepared food..." "Mr. Li, lies can't cover up the taste," Yan Zhi cut him off. "We enjoy the convenience brought by industrialization, yet greedily want the emotional premium of agricultural civilization! The problem isn't with pre-prepared food, but that we dare not admit—the times have long changed, yet we're still putting on a 'nostalgic' show, deceiving others and ourselves!" He turned his gaze to the jury. "Industrial civilization pursues efficiency and standardization, while agricultural civilization values craftsmanship and warmth. We want the speed of industry and the premium of agriculture, so we tie the two together with lies to deceive customers. This isn't craftsmanship—it's greed." Mr. Li's face turned from red to white, and finally to livid, but in front of the jury and the media, he didn't dare to explode. He glanced at the HR supervisor accompanying him and pointed at Yan Zhi's nose. The HR supervisor understood immediately, grabbing Yan Zhi and pulling him out of the kitchen.
"You're fired! Process your resignation now!" Yan Zhi didn't say a word. He slowly unfastened the white chef's towel around his neck, folded it neatly on the HR supervisor's computer, and turned to leave.
The times are changing, and some things are destined to disappear—but not in this way—sending off the old era with lies.
A cold gravitational pull tightened between Yan Zhi and the silence, like a water-soaked hemp rope, sticky yet firmly binding them together. The sweltering heat in the air dropped sharply, and even breathing carried a chill.
The dark clouds that had been gathering all day finally burst! A bolt of lightning split the sky, dazzlingly bright; immediately after, heavy rain poured down, crackling like countless whips lashing the earth.
Two men changed by the virus in different ways—one trapped in the empty shell of "conformity," the other trapped in the purgatory of "truth"—completed the connection of their lives in the downpour, an attraction rooted in their genes.
At this moment, Yan Zhi could not only feel the existence of the silence but also the presence of another person he had never met—Han Che. Their souls were like strung on the same rope.
And an unshakable thought took root in Yan Zhi's heart from then on:
Find him!