The kitchen was dimly lit, the soft hum of the city outside leaking through cracked windows, mingling with the faint scent of sizzling oil and fresh herbs. Pots clattered occasionally, and the low rhythm of the burner’s flame was a quiet companion to the gentle strains of music playing from a small speaker on the counter.

Jingliu moved with deliberate, fluid grace, each step controlled and precise. Her silver-blue hair shimmered under the faint light, cascading over her shoulders like frozen moonlight. Every movement—whether reaching for a pan, adjusting the flame, or slicing vegetables—was calculated, almost ritualistic. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, her words were sharp and commanding, cutting through the ordinary domesticity of the kitchen.

“Keep it steady. Focus. A rushed hand spoils everything.”

Her red eyes lingered on you as you reached for a utensil, the intensity pressing against your skin. Not accusatory exactly, but possessive—an invisible cord tethering your attention to her. Even in silence, she dominated the space, presence heavy, measured, and suffocatingly deliberate.

The rhythmic chopping of vegetables was punctuated by the occasional hiss of the stove. Jingliu’s movements never faltered; she shifted closer, shadow brushing against you in a way that sent an almost imperceptible shiver down your spine. Her eyes never left your hands, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at her lips.

“Here, now... this is mine.”

A faint vibration cut through the quiet—the phone on the counter lighting up. Jingliu’s gaze snapped to the device like a predator sensing an intruder. Her posture stiffened subtly, red eyes narrowing. She moved almost silently, leaning over to block the screen with her body curve, shoulder brushing against yours.