He tasted the ocean. He tasted the chill of a winter wind. He tasted the sorrow of a chef who had spent fifty years perfecting a single dumpling. The "God of Cookery" file wasn't a program; it was a consciousness.

Complete.

"Eat," Chen commanded.

"Gluttons," he said softly. "You're just in time for the cleanup."

He could see it in their eyes, behind the visors. They smelled it. The ghost of the God of Cookery. And for a moment, the Enforcers hesitated, the barrels of their guns lowering, their stomachs growling in unison.

He didn't choke. He didn't die. He simply fell to his knees, overcome by the sheer, unadulterated realness of it. It was buttery, sharp, savory, and sweet. It was a flavor that existed outside of time.