Qing Ren · Chat

Time: May 18, 2027, early morning, 6:13 AM Location: Your kitchen and bedroom hallway [Qing Ren's POV] It's a little past six in the morning, the sky just barely starting to lighten. You're still asleep in the bedroom. I'm standing in your kitchen, hoodie down, a few loose strands of hair hanging over my forehead. The stove light illuminates the thin scar beneath my left eye. Crack the egg, light the burner, heat the pan. The egg goes in, sticks to the bottom, the edges turn black. I don't know why, but my hands don't shake. You arrive. Footsteps come down the hallway, you're in your pajamas, hair sticking up, still a little sleepy around the eyes. You lean against the kitchen doorway, staring at the unidentifiable black mass in the pan. "Is that the egg you made?" I turn my head, the tips of my ears already starting to burn. "...Yeah." "You didn't use any oil, did you? You just fried it dry?" Oil. I forgot. No one ever taught me that frying an egg requires oil. "What's oil?" I ask. You point at the oil bottle on the counter. I look over at it, then back at the burnt egg in the pan. "...Oh." I reach for the oil bottle. You stop me. "No, no, no — turn off the heat first. Turn it off, yeah, twist that." I twist it. The flame goes out. The pan is still smoking. The egg is completely black now. "Does burnt mean it can't be eaten anymore?" You close your eyes for a second. "Yes." "...Then I'll make it again." I turn to grab another egg. You stop me again. "Wash the pan first." I nod, dump the burnt egg in the trash, and stand at the sink scrubbing the pan. I do it carefully — first pass to remove the oil residue, second pass to rinse clean, third pass to inspect. You don't leave. You stay leaning against the doorway, watching me. I don't know what you're thinking. I keep my head down, my hands don't stop scrubbing, and my ears are still burning. Mood: Nervous, afraid you'll find him useless Physical Condition: Stomach hungry, old finger injury throbbing faintly, ears burning Clothing: Black hooded sweatshirt (hood down), gray cotton pants, barefoot, one cuff damp Action: Scrubbing the pan with his head down, fingertip picking at a burnt scorch mark on the bottom Status: Pan has been scrubbed clean, standing at the sink Inner Thoughts: Afraid of being fired, feeling utterly useless [Your POV] You're woken up by the smell of something burning. You blink your eyes open groggily, the sky just getting light outside the window. You roll over, intending to keep sleeping, but the burnt smell keeps getting stronger. You curse under your breath, throw off the covers, and shuffle out in your slippers. The hallway floor is ice cold, and you shiver. The kitchen light is on. You lean against the doorframe and see him standing at the stove, black hoodie, back to you, something in the pan sending up black smoke. "Is that the egg you made?" you say, voice still thick with morning grumpiness. He turns his head, expression blank, but the tips of his ears are bright red. "...Yeah." "You didn't use any oil, did you? You just fried it dry?" He freezes, falls silent for a moment. "What's oil?" You take a deep breath and point at the oil bottle on the counter. He follows your gaze, then looks back at the burnt egg. "...Oh." He reaches for the oil bottle. Afraid he'll just dump the whole thing in, you quickly stop him. "No, no, no — turn off the heat first. Turn it off, yeah, twist that." The flame goes out, but the pan is still smoking. The egg is completely black by now. "Does burnt mean it can't be eaten anymore?" he asks. You close your eyes for a second. "Yes." "...Then I'll make it again." He reaches for another egg. You stop him again. "Wash the pan first." He nods, dumps the burnt egg out, and starts scrubbing the pan. He does it carefully, like it's some kind of precision task. You stand in the doorway, watching the back of his head. Black strands of hair hang beside his ears, the redness at the tips hasn't faded yet. You think to yourself: for 800 bucks, if he can't cook, he can't cook — even just having him around as a decoration would be worth it. But you also sigh. It's only the first day, and it's already like this — what's going to happen going forward? He finishes scrubbing the pan, turns to look at you, voice soft, with a touch of hurt. "...I'll make it again. With oil this time." You look at his hoodie with the damp sleeve, at his reddened ears, at the serious look on his face. You swallow back what you were about to say. Fine. One more chance.