“No — I just want to fill my stomach, plain and simple.”

I tried to distance myself from Wu Qinglan and save my dignity — the last thing I need is to be treated like some pervert.

Seeing that she hesitated, I added, “Just don’t worry and go ahead, I’m not picky about taste.”

“It’s weird to not be picky about food and still wanting to name the cook,” Sharo sighed, helpless. “Fine… it’s work, I’ll do my best. Just you wait.”

She left with a very villainous-sounding line, like a warrior heading into battle, and tossed the broken tray halves into the trash on the way out… A bit dramatic, no?

An omurice is just fried rice wrapped in an egg sheet. At worst the egg looks ugly — it’s not hard to make. Even a kitchen klutz like Xiao Lei could pull it off. And Sharo isn’t a character in some gag-comic — she can’t possibly make purple omurice, right?

…Still, my gut twinged. Some sixth-sense danger alarm kept blinking.

I peeked down the aisle and met Senior Changpu’s eyes; I waved her over. She came in with measured steps, hands folded before her, and gave me a polite thirty-degree bow.

“Welcome, dear Master. How may I help you?” she asked.

Wow — she could say it so easily. Senior Changpu looked completely natural about it, as if calling me “master” were the most normal thing in the world.

“Senior, you don’t have to do that for me,” I mumbled, embarrassed.

“Nope. You’re the guest, so you’re my master here. I’m not your senior now — I’m your maid.” She leaned forward slightly, deliberately lowering herself and subtly showing off her chest.

Professional to the bone… she’s improved a lot as a maid lately. No wonder she’s top of the shop — an experienced worker through and through.

“Okay, fine that you know Xiao Lei, but you actually know Saki-chan too?” Qinglan gaped, then rushed over with open arms toward Changpu, squealing, “Saki-chan, let me hug you~”

“No, Master Xiao Wu, please mind the shop rules~” Changpu said, refusing as always. This place isn’t some petting-cafe anyways.

“Senior…” I called out.

“Please call me Saki-chan while you’re in the shop,” Changpu said.

“Saki…chan. So, what level is Shana-chan’s omurice at?” I asked, trying to get to the point.

“Aah? You two requested Shana to make it?” Changpu’s face went from surprised to panic. “Wait here! I’ll go check!”

She ran toward the kitchen, but only three steps in there was a muffled “boom,” like something had exploded. The bald owner rushed in with a fire extinguisher — whether to put out a fire or save face, I couldn’t tell.

“It’s just an omurice! How did it even explode?”

Since the owner already went in, Changpu then returned, shrugging helplessly. “You don’t know — that girl has almost zero kitchen sense. By her own admission she rarely stepped into a kitchen before working here… She doesn’t seem poor either, so why did she take the job?”

What did I even hire — some level of noble delinquent as a maid?

Then I remembered: to lead a near-hundred-person gang, devise structures, run several stores and turn a profit — that’s not an ordinary delinquent. She’s got business sense and grit.

“Looks like the owner’s used to this?” I asked.

“Haha, probably,” Changpu chuckled. “She tries hard, but she’s proud — if she doesn’t like something it shows on her face, and she’ll even hit rude customers. Not ideal maid behavior.”

“Wait — she hits customers?” Wu Qinglan’s hand froze on her cup.

“It’s rare — most customers are shy,” Changpu said. The clientele here aren’t exactly socially skilled; many are otaku who don’t know how to interact with girls. Qinglan-type outgoing otaku are the minority. Zhao Zhao would definitely be the type to get slapped — I’d bet a bag of spicy strips on it.

The shop stayed busy and Changpu was pulled away. I wandered the manga shelf and lost myself in a story until…

“Sorry to keep you waiting, masters!”
Sharo burst out of the kitchen covered in soot, like a firefighter who pulled a baby out of a blaze, carrying two plates of omurice.

“Oh — it’s here!” Qinglan cheered, still hopeful. I’d pretty much given up, but now I watched, curious. Whatever help the manager gave, the plates looked better than I expected — which isn’t saying much. The egg hadn’t wrapped the rice; it lay over it like a blanket, and that blanket had a hole showing the bright red rice beneath. This wasn’t omurice — it was egg-on-rice. Still, Sharo looked satisfied.

“This is my best yet! What would you like me to write on it?” she asked.

“…Does this count as successful? No need to write anything for me.” I declined. She pressed a spoon into my hand like a treasure and urged me, “Try it!”

The pressure of expectation nearly crushed me. I lifted the egg with the spoon — a sea of red fried rice stared back, it made me wonder what kinds of ingredients she actually threw in there. One obvious thing though, the tomato-sauce smell was strong; that whole red color was ketchup.

“All right, I’m digging in.” I steeled myself, cut a piece, and took a bite. First hit: sweet-and-sour ketchup. Then the rice — a bit hard, with burned, salty notes. I pictured her forgetting to stir and burning the rice. The final weird thing was a stringy, rubbery bit… chew chew… ugh.

It was konjac threads — she’d put konjac in the fried rice and doused it with ketchup.

“So? How is it?” Sharo fidgeted, eyes begging for praise.

As a gentleman I should soothe her feelings, so I lied a bit: “Sweet and sour — quite nice.”
“The rice tastes good too,” I said, tasting the charred flavour.
“The konjac is… surprising,” I added. The rubbery konjac among the hard rice felt weird.
“In short, better than expected.” That’s generous — barely passable.

“Yay!” Wu Qinglan brightened and called to Sharo, “Write ‘Shana-chan ♡ Master!’ on mine!”

With a face of disdain, Sharo squeezed the piping bag full of red sauce and squeezed — a blob puffed out like gore, and she dumped the spoon in front of Wu Qinglan. Despite the rough treatment, Wu Qinglan loved it.

“This sick rejection feeling is addictive — Shana-chan is amazing!” she gushed.

“You’re a pervert!” I snapped.

“Bon appétit!” Wu Qinglan scooped up a full spoon with high hopes. Three seconds later her face went as red as ketchup. She croaked like a squashed toad and slumped on the table, weakly reaching for her drink.

“Water—!”