A wild wind carried raindrops through the open French windows and into the living room, dampening the edge of the Persian rug.
Joanne, floating in mid-air, slowly descended.
As the superheroine, revered as a god by countless people, stepped over the window frame and planted her rain-soaked high-top combat boots onto the apartment’s hardwood floor, Zack Vance felt as if all the air in the room had been sucked dry.
She was too close.
Close enough that Zack could clearly smell the crisp, chilly scent of the upper atmosphere lingering on her, mixed with the fragrance of some expensive perfume washed by the rain.
He could feel the muscles in his back tightening uncontrollably, his hairs standing on end.
This instinctual, physiological dread in the presence of an apex predator was not something his foresight as a transmigrator could easily smooth over.
Joanne didn’t look directly at Zack.
Instead, like a lioness patrolling her territory, she arrogantly surveyed the reasonably spacious single-level apartment.
Her gaze swept from the fabric sofa to the paintings on the wall, and then to the slightly messy countertop in the open kitchen.
Wherever her eyes went, Zack’s heart leapt into his throat, terrified that some item might displease this young lady’s aesthetic sensibilities and be incinerated to ashes in a single glance.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?”
Joanne finally spoke.
Her voice was beautiful, carrying a habitual condescension, but deep within her tone lay an imperceptible trace of irritation and exhaustion.
The radar panel in the upper-right corner of his vision flickered.
[Current Emotion: Irritated (60%) / Isolated and Helpless (40%)] [Mental Defenses: Highly Alert]
Zack took a deep breath, forcing his stiff shoulders to relax.
Instead of answering her oppressive question, he turned around naturally, walked to a nearby cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a dry cotton bath towel.
He tossed the towel straight to Joanne.
Joanne startled slightly, seemingly not expecting a mere mortal to dare throw something at her.
With a flick of her wrist, she caught the white bundle of fabric steadily in mid-air.
Zack pointed to her dripping blonde hair, his voice calm.
“Afraid?
I’m scared to death.
But I’m more afraid that the water on you will ruin my hardwood floors.
The solid wood floors in this apartment are a pain to maintain and expensive to repair.
Please dry your hair first.”
The air fell into an eerie silence for two seconds.
Gripping the soft towel, Joanne’s sapphire-blue eyes widened slightly as she sized up the Asian youth dressed in grey loungewear before her.
On the top floor of the Vought Tower, those executives in suits—even Madelyn Stillwell—always wore cautious, calculating masks in her presence.
Her rabid fans did nothing but scream and cry, begging for her blessing.
No one had ever righteously demanded she dry her hair just because they were worried about water damage on their hardwood floors.
The corner of Joanne’s mouth twitched.
The violent rage that had accumulated from a full day of hypocritical PR and Madelyn’s dismissive attitude welled up in her chest once more.
“If I wanted to, I could use two-thousand-degree heat to incinerate your floor along with your bones right now.”
She took a step closer.
Her combat boots thudded heavily against the floor.
Her powerful aura caused Zack’s breath to hitch, feeling as if a heavy stone were pressing down on his chest.
But Zack did not back down.
Though the red on the radar was glaring, it had not reached the threshold of a violent outburst.
He sensed that Joanne’s threat right now was more like an injured porcupine bristling its quills to prove its strength.
As long as he stroked her fur the right way, he wouldn’t trigger an explosion.
“Yes, of course you can.”
Zack nodded placidly, turning his back entirely—completely defenseless—to this superheroine who could end his life at any second, and walked straight toward the kitchen island.
“But before you incinerate my bones, do you want some noodles?”
The sharpness in Joanne’s eyes froze mid-blink at this sudden conversational leap.
She wondered if her super-hearing was malfunctioning.
Zack had already turned on the gas stove, blue flames licking the bottom of a pan.
He grabbed a handful of scallions from the counter, deftly chopping them into uniform pieces.
“You look like you haven’t eaten all day, and I happen to be making a late-night snack,” Zack said without looking back, sliding the chopped scallions into the heated oil.
*Sizzle—*
The crisp sound of frying echoed in the quiet apartment.
A rich, overpowering aroma of scallion oil, accompanied by rising white steam, rapidly filled the open kitchen and drifted into the living room.
Joanne stood in place.
The rage she had been preparing to unleash was utterly shattered by this warm, comforting aroma of everyday life.
She stared at the busy figure in the kitchen.
He deftly scooped out the scallions once they turned golden-brown, then poured in light soy sauce, dark soy sauce, and a teaspoon of sugar, simmering it into a thick, glossy sauce.
Next to it, a pot of water on another burner was already boiling.
He evenly dropped dry wheat noodles into the bubbling water, sending up tempting plumes of steam.
This was pure, ordinary life.
This sheer simplicity made Joanne—who had grown up in a cold laboratory, accustomed to being paraded around as a perfect commercial product—feel a profound sense of unfamiliarity and disorientation.
Irritated, she messily rubbed her wet hair with the towel a couple of times, walked over to the barstools by the kitchen island, pulled one out, and sat down.
“Madelyn told me today that my approval rating dropped by 0.2%.” Joanne rested her chin on one hand, her voice sounding slightly muffled, her blue eyes fixed on the noodles bubbling in the pot.
“Because during last week’s rescue operation, my expression in front of the cameras wasn’t ‘approachable’ enough.”
Zack’s heart stirred.
Longing for validation, yet tightly bound by the constraints of corporate rules—this was the root cause of why she was always on the verge of snapping.
He chose not to comment on Vought.
Preaching or pandering to her complaints at a time like this would only feel forced.
“Not approachable?” Zack used chopsticks to scoop out the cooked noodles, draining them before placing them in a white ceramic bowl.
“Well, your current expression is actually pretty good.
At least you look like a living, breathing human being, and not some photoshopped, perfect fake face on a poster.”
Joanne froze.
She looked up at Zack in astonishment.
This was the first time anyone had ever dared to tell her to her face that her smile looked like “a photoshopped fake face.”
Before she could flare up, Zack cleanly ladled a spoonful of the simmered scallion oil sauce over the white noodles and pushed the bowl in front of her.
“Mix it up and eat it while it’s hot.”
The rich, savory aroma of soy sauce combined with the distinct fragrance of scallion oil wafted straight into Joanne’s nose.
Even with her super-senses, she found the dark-sauced noodles incredibly enticing at this moment.
Joanne picked up the chopsticks.
Her movement was awkward, but she managed to twirl a mouthful of noodles and pop them into her mouth.
Zack stood across the kitchen island, wiping down the counter with a rag, his peripheral vision locked onto her profile.
The moment the noodles hit her tongue, Joanne’s chewing faltered slightly.
The savory saltiness of the sauce, the subtle sweetness of the sugar, and the soul-stirring charred aroma of the fried scallions blended perfectly on her tastebuds.
It was a flavor she had never experienced in any high-end Michelin-starred restaurant.
It was simple, cheap, but warm.
It felt as if a gentle, warm hand had just caressed the walls of her stomach, which had been encased in ice for far too long.
She didn’t say a word, only quickened her chewing.
Her stiff back gradually relaxed as she swallowed.
The suffocating weight brought on by Madelyn’s hypocrisy was largely washed away by this hot bowl of noodles.
At the edge of his retina, the quiet system interface silently displayed several lines of deep-blue text.
[Target’s emotions have shifted positively: Pleasure / Relaxation] [Perfect Empathy Radar Assessment: Mental defenses lowered.
Current status: Safe] [Condition met] [Drawing random funds…]
The text scrolled.
[Obtained: $3,000,000 USD in clean funds] [Note: The funds have been laundered through multiple offshore accounts and transferred in real-time to the host’s personal registered bank account as earnings from a legitimate offshore trust fund.
The source is absolutely secure, immune to any tax or institutional audits.]
Zack froze mid-wipe.
His breath hitched for a brief second.
Three million.
US dollars.
He took a deep breath, suppressing his pounding heart.
Just because of a bowl of scallion oil noodles that cost less than two dollars to make, he had acquired wealth that ordinary people couldn’t earn in several lifetimes.
Zack raised his eyes, looking at Joanne, who was currently stuffing the last bite of noodles into her mouth with absolutely no regard for her image.
Just moments ago, he had been trembling in fear, wondering if he would survive the night under this she-devil’s heel.
Now, the way he looked at Joanne underwent a fundamental transformation.
This wasn’t some walking nuclear warhead that could detonate at any moment.
This was an inexhaustible, golden cash cow.
As long as he played along with her temper and provided enough “emotional value,” he could accumulate enough leverage to overturn Vought’s chessboard at the fastest possible speed in this capital-dominated world.
Joanne swallowed the last of the noodles and let out a tiny burp.
Realizing her lapse in posture, she instantly stiffened her face and set down her chopsticks.
Resuming her haughty tone, she looked coldly at Zack.
“The taste is barely passable.
It’s slightly better than the flavorless nutritional meals Madelyn prepares for me.”
Although she was critical, the coldness and irritation in her eyes from when she first entered had vanished.
“Thanks for the compliment,” Zack said calmly, picking up the empty bowl in front of her and placing it in the sink.
“There are some left in the pot.
Want another serving?”
Joanne, who was just about to stand up, paused.
She stared at Zack’s broad back and the rushing tap water in the sink.
A trace of relaxation, unnoticed even by herself, flickered in her eyes.
“Fine, give me a little more.
And remember, add more of that dark sauce.”