Is it normal for everyone to die? Am I lucky to still be alive? Indeed, fortunate that I'm still here? Klein shivered suddenly and hurried forward, taking several quick steps toward the door, trying to catch up with the officers and seek protection. But as soon as he touched the handle, his movement halted. "Those officers have described the situation as so terrifying—why wouldn't they protect me, a key witness or crucial piece of evidence?" "Isn't this a complete oversight?" "Are they testing me? Or setting a trap?" A flurry of thoughts battled within Klein, making him suspect that the police were still quietly watching him, observing his reactions. With that realization, he felt calmer, no longer panicked or agitated. He opened the door slowly and deliberately called out to the landing, his voice trembling: "You'll protect me, won't you?" Tap. Tap. Tap. The officers didn't respond. The rhythm of their shoes on the wooden stairs remained unchanged. "I know! You'll do that! "Klein called out again with the tone of someone firmly convinced, striving to appear like a normal person facing a real threat. The footsteps gradually faded, disappearing into the ground floor of the apartment. Klein hummed softly, chuckling inwardly: "How utterly fake! The acting is simply subpar!" He didn't pursue further, turned back, and casually closed the door. For the next several hours, Klein demonstrated clear restlessness—sitting upright, fidgeting, agitated, and utterly distracted, using a host of phrases commonly associated with over-enthusiastic food lovers, never relaxing his intensity even when no one was around. That's what true actor's self-cultivation is all about—he chuckled to himself in self-mockery. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky began to "burn" with color, and the residents of the apartment started returning home, Klein gradually shifted his focus to other matters. "Melissa is probably almost done with school now…" He turned his gaze to the stove, lifted the kettle, peeled away the coal, and then produced his revolver. Without pause, without delay, he reached beneath the lower plank of the high bed, where ten or so wooden strips crossed and supported it. After clamping the revolver between one of the strips and the plank, Kline straightened up, nervously waiting, afraid that the police might suddenly burst through the door, armed with guns, and rush into the room. In a normal steam world, such a move would have gone unnoticed—yet here, there were extraordinary powers, powers he himself had verified. For several minutes, there was no movement at the door; only the conversation between the two tenants, gradually drawing nearer and then receding toward the iron cross street café, "The Wild Heart." A deep breath. Kline exhaled, and his heart settled back into his chest. He was just waiting for Melissa to return with her creamy pea and lamb stew! The thought surfaced, and suddenly, the aroma of rich meat juices seemed to fill his mouth. At the same time, he recalled exactly how Melissa prepared the stew. She first boiled water, then added the meat cubes, followed by onions, salt, a pinch of pepper, and water, and simply stewed them until, at a certain point, she introduced peas and potatoes, simmering them for forty to fifty minutes. "Such a simple, unadorned method—truly relying solely on the natural flavor of the meat!" Klein couldn't help but shake his head. Yet this was no option; ordinary households rarely had multiple seasonings or diverse cooking techniques. They focused instead on simplicity, practicality, and economy. As long as the meat didn't burn or spoil, it was sufficient for someone who might only eat it twice or even once a week. Klein wasn't particularly skilled in the kitchen, relying mostly on takeout meals daily. But by cooking three or four times a week and accumulating these efforts over time, he had developed a satisfactory level of competence, one he felt he couldn't afford to let the pound of lamb down. "I'll make it when Melissa returns. By then, it'll be past seven thirty—she'll be starving. It's time for her to experience genuine home cooking!" Klein found an excuse for himself, reignited the fire, and went to the public restroom to fetch water to rinse the lamb. Then he pulled out a cutting board and knife, firmly chopping the meat into small pieces. As for how to explain his sudden flair for cooking, he decided to attribute it to the late Mr. Welch-McGowan. Not only had this classmate invited a chef renowned for his expertise in coastal Irish cuisine, but he also frequently experimented with dishes, inviting others to taste them. Hmm, the dead certainly can't argue with me! Still, sigh—this is a world of extraordinary beings, and perhaps the dead aren't entirely silent after all... Thinking this, Klein felt a little uneasy. He set aside his scattered thoughts, placed the meat pieces into the soup bowl, then opened a seasoning box, sprinkling a heaping spoonful of coarse, slightly yellowed salt into it. He also carefully drew out a small amount of black pepper grains from a dedicated bottle, mixing them thoroughly with the lamb and salt to allow the meat to marinate slightly. Place the pot on the stove and, while it heats up, Crain pulls out the carrots left over from yesterday, along with the onions he bought today, and cuts them into numerous pieces. Once everything is ready, he reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a small jar, opening it to find only a small amount of pork fat remaining. He scoops a ladleful into the pot, sears it until melted, then adds the cubed carrots and onions, stirring them well. As the aroma begins to spread, he pours in all the lamb cutlets and cooks them carefully. At this point, he should have added some dry white wine, at the very least a glass of wine—though the Moretti family doesn’t have such luxuries, and Bensen drinks only one beer per week—so Crain settles for plain water, adding it casually. After simmering for about twenty minutes, he opens the lid, adds the fresh green peas and the sliced potatoes, then pours in another cup of hot water and two tablespoons of salt. He closes the lid, reduces the heat, and takes a satisfied breath, waiting for his sister to return home. Minute by minute, the fragrance in the room grew richer—inviting, rich with meat, deep with potatoes, and fresh with onions. The scents blended together, and Cain occasionally swallowed, opening the cover of his watch to check the minutes. Forty minutes later, steady but unhurried footsteps approached. The key turned, the handle swung, and the door opened. "Such a fragrance…" Melissa murmured, still outside the room, her voice tinged with curiosity. She carried her handbag, stepped in, and glanced at the fireplace. "Did you make this?" Melissa paused mid-motion, removing her hat, her gaze fixed on Cain with growing astonishment. She inhaled deeply, drawing in more of the aroma, and her expression softened quickly, as if gaining confidence. "Did you really make this?" she asked, still puzzled. Were you afraid I’d waste the lamb? "Klein smiled and asked, without waiting for an answer, continuing on his own: "Don't worry—I've specifically consulted Welch about how to prepare this dish. You know, he has a wonderful chef." "First time making it?" Melissa's brow furrowed slightly, but was gently smoothed out by the aroma. "It seems I have a natural talent," Klein chuckled. "Almost ready now. Set your book and hat aside, go to the bathroom and wash your hands, then just wait and enjoy. I'm quite confident." Listening to his steady instructions and watching his calm, gentle smile, Melissa stood frozen at the doorway, motionless. "Would you like it a bit softer, more tender?" Klein smiled and gently urged. "Oh, yes, yes!" Melissa came back to herself, holding her bag in one hand and her hat in the other, and hurried into the inner room. As he lifted the lid of the pot, a mist immediately rose. The two slices of rye bread had already been placed beside the lamb and the young peas, allowing them to absorb the fragrance and warmth and become soft. When Melissa returned, having finished packing her belongings and washing her hands and face, a pot of tender green peas stewed with lamb, accented with potatoes, carrots, and onions, was already set out on the desk, along with two dark loaves, slightly stained with meat juices, resting in their respective plates. "Come, try this," said Caine, pointing to the wooden spoon and fork placed beside the dish. Melissa remained a bit uncertain, did not decline, picked up the fork, and took a piece of potato, bringing it to her mouth and gently biting into it. The soft, creamy texture of the potato and the rich aroma of the meat juices flooded her senses, causing her saliva to rush forth; in just a few moments, she finished the piece and swallowed it down. "Now try the meat," said Caine, indicating the dish with his chin. He had already tasted it and found it merely satisfactory, but for a young girl who had rarely seen meat and only occasionally managed to taste it, this was more than enough! A sense of anticipation sparkled in her eyes, and she carefully forked a piece of lamb, taking it with care. It had been gently simmered until quite tender, almost melting as soon as it touched the tongue, releasing a rich, authentic meat aroma and flowing with delightful juices that filled the mouth. It was an experience unlike any she had ever had, and Melissa simply couldn't stop. By the time she regained her composure, she had already devoured several pieces of lamb. "Me, me, Clary—this was all prepared especially for you..." Melissa's face flushed, her words stammering. "I've been secretly enjoying it all along—it's simply the privilege of a chef," Clary smiled, soothing her sister, while simultaneously picking up her fork and spoon, occasionally taking a bite of meat, a handful of peas, or setting down her utensils to break off a piece of dark bread and dip it into the sauce. Relieved by Clary's calm and natural demeanor, Melissa relaxed and once again became fully immersed in the deliciousness. "Absolutely delicious," she said, glancing at the now-empty plate with no trace of sauce left, and sincerely praising it. "Compared to Welch's chef, we're still far behind. When I have more money, I'll take you and Bensen out to a nicer restaurant for a better meal!" Klein said, already beginning to look forward to it. "You were interviewing... er...嗝..." Melissa's words trailed off as she suddenly couldn't help emitting a satisfied hum. She quickly reached for her mouth, looking flustered. It was all thanks to how delicious the young peas with lamb stew had been! Klein chuckled to himself, deciding not to tease his sister. He pointed to the plate and said, "That's your task." "Yes, absolutely!" Melissa jumped up eagerly, picked up the dish, and rushed toward the door. When she returned, she opened the cabinet and habitually checked the spice jars and other supplies. "You used some of these?" Melissa exclaimed, turning to Klein, now holding the black pepper bottle and the pork lard can. Klein shrugged and smiled, "Just a little—this is the price of deliciousness." Melissa's eyes sparkled, her expression shifting several times before she finally pressed her lips together and said, "Then I'll handle the cooking from now on." "Uh... you'll need to start preparing for the interviews soon, and think about your work responsibilities."