The kitchen was massive, cold, and smelled like a brand-new car. Everything was marble and silver, dominated by a stove that looked like it belonged on a spaceship.
Xingcheng stood before it, looking completely ridiculous. He wore a two-thousand-dollar silk undershirt paired with the grease-stained "BOB" work pants he'd swiped from the car wash.
An angry hiss erupted from the pan. A plume of grey smoke drifted toward the ceiling.
Xingcheng gripped a silver spatula like a combat knife, his jaw so tight it looked ready to snap. He glared at the eggs with pure, unadulterated hatred.
"You're burning it, Cheng," Joey said.
She was perched on the high marble counter, swinging her legs. She was eating cereal straight from the box, a stray flake stuck to her bottom lip.
"Just because the stove cost more than my house doesn't mean you can stare the food into submission," Joey added, hopping down. "It's an egg, not a criminal. Flip it before it turns into a rock."
"The interface is non-responsive," Xingcheng muttered, poking a rubbery mass in the pan. "It's too hot. In my world, things do what I tell them to do. This egg... it's being difficult on purpose."
Joey rolled her eyes. "Move. You're scaring the food."
She slid into his space, her bare feet making a soft thud on the floor. She nudged him aside with her shoulder—a casual, thoughtless bump to get to the butter.
Xingcheng went rigid. His breath hitched. In his world, people only touched him if they were trying to kill him or collect a check.
To him, that small nudge felt like a live wire hitting water. To Joey, he was just a man blocking the spatula.
"How?" Xingcheng asked, his eyes tracking her hands. "You didn't even adjust the digital heat settings."
"It's called having a feel for it, Cheng. You should try it." Joey flipped the egg with a quick, practiced flick of her wrist. "You're so stiff I'm waiting for you to pick a fight with the toaster. It's just breakfast. Relax."
The toaster dings—a soft, expensive chime. Joey grabbed a slice of steaming sourdough. She didn't bother with a plate or a napkin. She just turned around, her face inches from his.
"Open up," she commanded.
Xingcheng blinked, his dark eyes wide.
"What?"
"Taste it! Don't be a snob. It's the only normal thing in this entire house."
Before he could protest, she shoved the corner of the hot, buttered toast into his mouth.
The Shadow Emperor stood paralyzed, being hand-fed by a girl in a "Save the Bees" shirt. He chewed slowly, the crunch echoing in the quiet kitchen. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, the king was gone. He was just a man who was hungry.
"It's... actually good," he said, his voice low and scratchy.
"See? Simple is better." Joey reached up and tapped his nose with a finger. "Now, go put on a shirt that doesn't smell like soap and car grease. We're going to the balcony. I want to see the view without you trying to hide a gun in your pants."
Joey turned away, grabbing the plate and heading for the massive glass doors. Her messy hair caught the morning sun, glowing as she walked.
Xingcheng stood alone by the stove. He reached out, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to grab her hand and pull her back—to hold onto that warmth for one more second.
But he stopped. He curled his hand into a tight fist and dropped it to his side.
He looked at the breadcrumbs on the pristine, million-dollar counter. He was terrified. Not of the Ghost Clan or the assassins, but of a girl with a cereal flake on her lip.