Tang Li Yue decided that if the apocalypse insisted on turning her farmhouse into a command center, it could at least have the decency to let her eat while planning.
Therefore, dinner became a strategy meeting.
Not because she approved of such things.
She did not.
Food deserved respect. Soup deserved silence. Rice deserved attention. Pickled vegetables deserved better than being used as background scenery while military men discussed detention facilities, rogue directors, and power resets.
Unfortunately, survival was vulgar.
It dragged maps across dining tables and placed radios beside bowls of porridge.
Tang Li Yue sat at the head of the table with a clean bowl, a cup of tea, and an expression that informed everyone present that interruptions during chewing would be punished according to severity.
