Chapter 2: Shadows in the Greenhouse

In the corner, a girl was washing dishes with her back to me. When the woman spoke, she turned around and grinned, flashing her teeth.

A scar ran from the corner of her eye to her mouth—jagged, pink, never fully healed. I tried not to stare. Scars like that… they can’t be easy to live with.

I gave her a polite smile in return, hoping she’d see I wasn’t judging.

Unexpectedly, the girl’s saliva dripped down her chin, her eyes shining with a strange light. She stared at me, unblinking, lips twitching.

Seriously, what did I do? Just my luck. Uh… is it my fault for being too good-looking? I forced a weak chuckle for the camera, but inside, I was rattled.

I instinctively took two steps back, bumping into the edge of a table. My heart hammered, and I tried to play it cool for the livestream.

Maybe my reaction made things worse. She turned and shoved a bowl off the counter, smashing it with a crash. The noise made everyone in the dining room look up.

Then, she picked up a sharp knife, waved it at me twice, and threw it—nailing a potsticker on the promotional poster on the wall. The blade stuck there, quivering. My heart dropped. Was this really happening?

The move was so aggressive, my face went red with embarrassment. The chat went nuts: “Dude, get out of there!” “That’s not normal!”

The woman grabbed the girl and really let her have it, scolding her in a low, urgent voice. The girl twisted away, mumbling, eyes darting toward me.

The girl pointed at me, mumbling something. With the glass soundproofing, I couldn’t make out the words. She seemed both angry and… hopeful? Was it weird I felt out of place?

Finally, the hip guy walked over and pushed the girl through a door, and that was that. The tension in the room eased, but my hands were still shaking.

When the hip guy brought me my potstickers, he slammed the bowl down: “Eat up and leave, quick.” His voice made it clear I wasn’t welcome.

So unfriendly. I forced a smile, telling myself not to take it personally. Not every meal can be five stars for service.

At that moment, the newlywed couple finished eating. The groom grinned: “Dude, the potstickers are insane!”

“Babe, let’s come again tomorrow,” the bride said, shaking his arm, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

With food that good, I was even more eager to try it. Everyone in the comments lost their minds: “Dig in! Don’t make us wait!”

The wrapper was thin and translucent, the pink shrimp and green veggies visible inside. Steam curled up, carrying a scent that made my mouth water.

I split one open with my chopsticks, held it to my nose, and took a deep breath. The aroma was like déjà vu on a plate—familiar, yet strange, almost haunting.

There was a fragrance I couldn’t quite place—a kind of memory not stored in my brain. Something tugged at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t name it.

I’m a veteran food blogger. That shouldn’t happen. I’ve eaten everything from tripe to truffles, and I can usually ID an ingredient by scent alone.

My hand shook, and the potsticker slipped to the ground. My fans gasped: “Noooo!”

I grabbed a napkin, wrapped up the potsticker, and was about to toss it in the trash when a hand stopped me. The old man appeared out of nowhere, moving surprisingly fast for his age.

“Don’t waste it, feed it to the dog.” The old man stuffed the potsticker in his pocket, giving me a look that said he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

A thrifty, caring owner—thumbs up. I gave him a thumbs-up back, still unsettled.

After the old man left, I tried to shake off the weird vibe and kept the livestream going. The chat kept pushing: “Hurry up and eat, it won’t taste good cold!”

I didn’t move. Something in my gut told me to wait.

If I can’t smell the flavor, I won’t eat. That’s a professional habit I’ve picked up. The chat roasted me for being picky.

Rattlesnake, cicada pupae, frog legs… you name it, I’ve eaten it. I once ate a raw oyster the size of my palm on camera, just to prove a point.

But this simple shrimp and veggie potsticker had an ingredient I couldn’t ID by smell. It bugged me more than I wanted to admit.

The potsticker had an alluring aroma, making me want to swallow it whole. I fought the urge, my mouth watering against my will.

While covering my mouth and swallowing like crazy, I looked around. The chat made fun of my self-control, but I barely noticed.

Almost every diner was wolfing down their food, mouths slick with oil, expressions a little manic. The way they ate—eyes glazed, hands shaking—sent a chill up my spine.

Something wasn’t right. I closed my eyes, tried to focus on the potsticker’s freshness with my nose again. I’d never been this thrown off by a dish.

No, the aftertaste of the fragrance was an odd, unpleasant smell. Like something rotting beneath all that savory goodness.