This was a windowless restaurant. Not only that, but the thick soundproof door, wrapped in cowhide and stuffed with cotton, absorbed every bit of the street noise without letting a drop escape.
The entire restaurant was pieced together from thick, sturdy cedar planks, with intricate mortise-and-tenon joints at the corners.
Dim, somber lighting shrouded the simple wooden square tables, dotted between them with pristine white Tang pine petals.
Steam rose from the dishes as diners clinked glasses.
The wine selection was extensive, but there was only one kind of ingredient.
Hands continuously scooped snails from the plates to their mouths. With cheeks bulging, they produced squelching sucking sounds, as if some slimy object was squeezing into their lips and throats. The diners’ pupils gradually dilated, clearly entering a state of excitement.
The snail shells were the size of a palm—some solid black, white, or green; others densely patterned with beautiful stripes. They had a texture like jade or porcelain, smooth and rounded, nestled in coarse salt within rough ceramic deep plates.
“Heh, as expected of Egret House. So satisfying. What delicious snail meat—melts in your mouth. It didn’t feel like swallowing; it felt like ascending! Crawling up a mysterious passage into my brain!”
“This is my third time. Reservations at Egret House are the hardest. Between my second and third visits, it was a full half-year gap. Finally sating my craving now.”
“Mine’s my second time. Ever since the first taste, I couldn’t forget it. Didn’t expect to wait a whole month for a spot. Without Egret House’s baked snails, I feel like snails are crawling all over me!”
“I heard no one can book a fourth time. The longest wait was over a year. Even imposters get kicked out.”
“So cruel. I don’t even dare imagine how to live after three times!”
“Maybe a competitor will pop up.”
“Hope so…”
…
Behind the bar, against a minimalist iron wine rack, a young woman stood ramrod straight. Her shoulders were broad, her waist slender. She wore a silky black dress shirt, cinched with a luxury leather belt whose silver buckle gleamed.
Her slender, powerful fingers tightly pinched two Spade A embossed metal plaques. As her fingertips pushed them, they emitted crisp snapping sounds.
Suddenly, a guest slammed both hands on the table and stood up, roaring:
“I can’t accept not getting a fourth time!”
This was a brutish, savage guy. He shoved the neighboring guest aside and crammed someone else’s large snail into his mouth!
Trouble!
The young woman tossed aside the metal plaques, vaulted over the bar with one hand, and rushed to the table. But she was still a step too late.
That guest finished sucking the snail, then shuddered violently. His face paled, and he clutched his hair desperately, roaring in a phlegmy rasp:
“Aaahhh… my brain… it’s wriggling…”
The other guests turned at the noise, some still holding snails to their mouths, not forgetting to eat.
Bang!
The man fell flat on his back. Then, his pupils seemed to dissolve, fading into the whites of his eyes. The shape of his eyeballs softened and bulged like living things, wriggling. Something soft and gray-white, interlaced with fine scale patterns, surged from his lips, writhing like a snail.
Aaaah—!
Screams erupted throughout the dining room one after another. Seeing the situation turn dire, the black-clad woman quietly slipped out the back door…
—
On the bed.
Hearing Amber speak in a commanding tone, Ashley inexplicably felt a thrill.
People liked eating crabs not just for their fresh meat, but for their majestic armor and the courage to pinch—allowing one to peel away the hard shell, gut them, and savor the pleasure of torment.
“Okay, okay! Let’s play the young miss game. I’ll be the maid!”
Ashley propped herself up on her elbows. The bedding slipped from her shoulders, and the faint light from the window illuminated her neck and chest, glowing with a pearly sheen, like a little white fish.
“I’ll be the young miss!”
In the urgency, Amber didn’t think twice and dove into the role. Her tone carried a hint of reproach as she scolded:
“You slippery maid! Didn’t I tell you to warm the bed and then crawl back to your dog kennel? You’re still loafing here! No breakfast for you as punishment! Now, attend to me for my nighttime bathroom break!”
“As you command!”
Ashley immediately extended her little dog paws and scooped up Amber, charging straight to the bathroom.
Huh?
Why was she being carried?
By the time Amber realized something was off, she was already being held over the toilet.
“Huh? What are you doing!”
“Heh heh, a pathetic wimp owner who can’t go to the bathroom alone at night deserves to be held by the maid for potty time~”
“Wahhh… so mean…”
“Hurry up and say, ‘Maid sister, wipe me.'”
“Maid sister… wipe me…”
No! Why was she going along with it?!
“Let me go! I’m not playing anymore!”
Amber panicked and struggled desperately, her voice cracking with tears.
This time, Ashley stopped in time—otherwise, she’d start bawling again. She gently set her down and said softly, “Don’t be scared. I’ll stand guard at the door.”
“I told you it’s not fear…” Amber protested weakly.
With the door clicking shut, she finally breathed a sigh of relief.
The release felt unexpectedly relieving, almost enough to make her cry.
If only Ashley didn’t bully her. That kind of Ashley would be super cute, cute enough to melt hearts.
But was that possible?
She gave a self-mocking smile.
—
In the morning, Amber, still drowsy, was awakened by the sunlight. She rolled over and saw Ashley still asleep, so she extended a bare arm from the covers and shoved her.
“Time for work!”
“Just a bit longer…”
Ashley didn’t want to leave the soft pillow.
Regular cadres still had to clock in for paperwork. Only senior cadres got true leisure, since there weren’t that many incidents requiring their involvement.
“Lazybug!”
Amber shook her repeatedly until she finally got up—but they missed breakfast as a result.
The two rushed to the office.
As the new captain of the Seventh Group, Ashley had morning meetings every day.
The Seventh Group belonged to the Investigation Department. Godfrey, the head of the Investigation Department, hosted the morning meetings, mainly introducing new cases from the surroundings and updates on long-term tracked cases. They sounded pretty interesting—not the kind of drowsy sessions droning on about comprehending XX spirit.
After the meeting, they ran into Meroi in the hallway. The old man was extremely chatty—or rather, completely slacking off at work. He dragged her into a half-hour chat, mostly discussing rescue methods for the brain fish.
Ashley cut straight to the point:
“It’s an economic issue. Supernatural means can grant bodies, but the cost is exorbitant—not suitable for ordinary people. Normal medical methods can’t mass-produce even simplified, rejection-free bodies. To put it bluntly, with Union City’s current resources, forget reshaping bodies for fifty thousand people—even raising fifty thousand pigs would be tough.”
“Got any good ideas? I think you’re way smarter than those useless experts. They were worthless in the Rift City incident. Now I don’t even bother with their reports.”
The old man stretched out on the bench, making the steel chair creak. Ashley glanced over and saw several steel bars over ten centimeters wide deformed.
“Have you heard of the ‘metaverse’?”
“Tell me.”
“Since physical bodies are hopeless, why not create a mental space with a new social system for the fifty thousand brain fish? Normal people could join via neural links too.
A new system and order would stabilize their minds, allowing them to work. We’d need matching neural-interface production tools—could be farm irrigation setups, typewriters and drawing tools, cooking equipment, etc. Best if creative work, to avoid competition from assembly lines…”
Meroi’s eyes grew brighter as he pondered the vision, slapping the table in praise:
“You’re truly remarkable! But if I used that method, I’d end up on a lamppost! Decided! I’m reshaping bodies for fifty thousand people!”
