8:50 PM.
The neon glow of New York City filtered through the gaps of the partially drawn curtains, casting mottled patterns of light and shadow across the apartment’s hardwood floor.
Zack Vance sat on the sofa and closed the laptop resting on his knees.
A split second before the screen went dark, it displayed the fund flows of several covert offshore accounts.
Scraps of Vought International shares scattered across the trading market were quietly being swallowed up by this stealthy flow of capital.
The second hand of the wall clock ticked in a steady rhythm.
Zack stood up, set his laptop aside, and walked toward the open-concept kitchen.
He pulled open the refrigerator door, releasing a puff of cold air.
He took out the fresh scallions he had bought at the Chinese supermarket that afternoon and washed them patiently at the sink.
The running water washed the dirt off the green leaves, allowing his mind to disengage from the complex financial charts.
His timing was impeccable.
Just as the hot oil in the pan began to brown the chopped scallions to a golden crisp, unleashing a rich scallion-oil aroma into the air, the airflow in the living room visibly warped.
The motion-sensor light on the balcony clicked, casting a warm white glow.
A gust of wind blew the loose curtains high into the air.
Zack turned off the gas stove, poured the dark, reduced sauce into a small ceramic bowl, and finally turned to look toward the French doors.
Joanne stood just inside the balcony railing, her red, white, and blue suit still bearing traces of the cool night dew.
Through the glass pane, she watched Zack holding a bowl of noodles in the kitchen.
Her chin was tilted up slightly, maintaining the proud posture of a deity.
Zack walked over, unlatched the lock with one hand, and slid the glass door open.
“You’re right on time.”
Joanne didn’t reply.
She stepped into the living room with her long legs, bringing in a draft carrying the scent of high-altitude ozone and hospital disinfectant.
The smell made Zack furrow his brow slightly.
Knowing Vought’s performative PR schedules from the news, he could guess what this high-maintenance lady had been through this afternoon.
Joanne didn’t even glance at the dining table.
She marched straight toward the gray fabric sofa in the center of the living room.
As if treating this place like her private lounge at Vought Tower, she let her tall frame sink heavily into the cushions.
Immediately after, she casually lifted her legs and rested her high-top red combat boots—which were dusted with a bit of dirt and grime—onto the edge of Zack’s solid wood coffee table with a dull thud.
Having completed this sequence, she reached under a throw pillow, fished out the TV remote, and pressed the power button.
Zack emerged from the kitchen carrying two steaming bowls of scallion oil noodles, only to witness this exact scene.
He paused, his gaze lingering on the boots resting on the wooden table for two seconds.
“Take your feet off the table.”
Zack’s voice wasn’t loud, but it sounded exceptionally clear in the apartment, which was otherwise filled only with the background noise of the television.
Joanne froze mid-action on the sofa.
Her finger stopped clicking the remote.
She slowly turned her head, her gaze locking onto Zack over the back of the sofa.
Deep within her azure eyes, a dangerous crimson glow began to churn uncontrollably.
The air in the living room turned instantly stagnant.
The temperature seemed to spike by several degrees due to her emotional fluctuation, and the TV screen began to hiss with static from electromagnetic interference.
“Are you commanding me?”
Joanne’s voice carried a chilling pressure.
At Vought, not even the board of directors dared to dictate her posture.
Now, an ordinary human was telling her to put her feet down over some cheap wooden table.
“I’m not commanding you, I’m stating a fact,” Zack said calmly, meeting her glowing red eyes.
“This coffee table is made of solid wood panels.
Your boots are dusty, and the soles are hard enough to leave scratches.
If you don’t take your feet down, there will be no late-night snack tonight.”
This was a tightrope walk of psychological warfare.
Zack knew that when dealing with an overgrown toddler who had never had any boundaries, blind obedience would only make her push the envelope.
It would eventually turn his place into a second dumping ground for her destructive urges.
He had to establish some mundane rules of human life, starting with these minor details.
He placed his bet on the bowl of intensely aromatic noodles in his hands.
The red glow in Joanne’s eyes flickered.
She glared at Zack, seemingly calculating the payoff of slicing this insolent mortal in half with her lasers versus eating the bowl of noodles.
The air remained tense for a solid half-minute.
Ultimately, the aroma of the food and that long-lost sense of authenticity—where she didn’t have to wear a mask—won out.
Joanne snorted, and the red glow in her eyes vanished instantly.
Looking highly annoyed, she swung her legs down, her boots striking the floor with a dull thud.
“Cheapskate.
You mortals love wasting your energy on meaningless chunks of wood.”
She muttered a superior-sounding complaint, but her body was honest—she sat up straight and stared intently at the ceramic bowl in Zack’s hands.
Zack let out a silent sigh of relief, the muscles in his back gradually relaxing.
He walked forward, placed one bowl of noodles on the coffee table, and handed her a pair of chopsticks.
“Toss it while it’s hot.
Once it cools down, it’ll clump together.”
Joanne snatched the chopsticks and somewhat roughly mixed the noodles and dark sauce.
She sat cross-legged on the sofa and began to scarf it down.
Zack took his own bowl and sat on the single-seater armchair next to her.
The TV was playing a boring nature documentary.
On the screen, a few marmots were shoving each other on a grassland, fighting over territory.
Normally, Joanne wouldn’t waste a second on such brainless content.
But right now, as she chewed her noodles and watched the screen, her expression was remarkably focused and relaxed.
The tight lines of her shoulders and back gradually softened.
Under the warm lighting, the star-spangled suit that represented absolute power and divinity no longer looked like an inviolable uniform, but rather like an exhausting set of tight overalls.
“That kid with leukemia kept tugging at my cape.
The IV needle in his hand almost snagged my suit’s fiber.”
Joanne swallowed a mouthful of noodles, her eyes still glued to the TV screen as she blurted out the random statement.
Zack paused mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering.
“Kids are like that.
They want to grab anything shiny or brightly colored,” he said, taking a bite of his noodles.
“You should count yourself lucky he didn’t get snot on your suit.”
Joanne turned her head and glared at him.
“If he dared get snot on me, I swear I would’ve smashed through the ward window and flown right out.”
Though she talked tough, there was no real murderous intent in her voice; instead, she sounded like a regular young woman venting her disgust and annoyance.
Zack couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle.
Ten minutes later.
Joanne set down her empty bowl, leaned back against the sofa cushions, and let out a satisfied sigh.
Zack stood up to take their empty bowls to the kitchen sink.
Just as he bent down and before his hand could touch the bowls on the table—
“I’m going to watch TV for a bit longer.”
Joanne adjusted her posture, finding an even more comfortable angle to lean back, showing absolutely no intention of leaving.
Zack froze, looking at how naturally she made herself at home.
“Doesn’t the luxury home theater on the ninety-ninth floor of Vought Tower satisfy you?”
Joanne didn’t even blink, her gaze still locked on the fighting marmots on screen.
“The leather sofas there smell of disgusting disinfectant.
And they don’t have stupid animal shows like this.”
She gave her reasoning with absolute confidence, using the tip of her boot to gently tap the edge of the coffee table.
“And don’t make annoying dishwashing noises.”
Zack stood there holding the two empty bowls, silent for a couple of seconds.
Staring at the blonde figure who had taken over his living room and disrupted his routine, he sighed silently and resignedly carried the bowls to the kitchen.