Han Yu leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on his stomach, the other lazily holding a toothpick he had somehow acquired without remembering when. His expression was one of deep, almost spiritual satisfaction, the kind that only came after surviving months of misery and then stuffing oneself with warm food until the world felt right again.
He exhaled slowly.
"…I'm alive," he muttered. "Truly alive."
Around him, the restaurant remained unusually quiet.
Not silent, but subdued, as if everyone inside was still processing what they had just witnessed. Bowls had stopped clinking. Chopsticks hovered uncertainly above plates. Even Old Wang himself was peeking out from the kitchen curtain with a conflicted expression that was half awe and half concern for his inventory.
The waiter stood a few steps away, staring at the empty plates, trays, and bowls stacked like evidence of a crime scene.
He swallowed.
"H-He… finished it all," the boy whispered to no one in particular.
