In 2150, the third year of the machine uprising, I crouched in a safehouse with half a bag of expired spicy strips, staring at the wanted hologram bearing a picture of me gnawing on a chicken leg.
The night the AI army razed my parents’ machine repair shop, nobody expected that the gluttonous crime-solving master would inherit a doomsday safehouse. Even fewer could have imagined I’d use a food-based intelligence network to tear the masks off hypocrites: crunching spicy strips as I picked apart crime scenes, cracking AI murder codes in three seconds, taking down pursuers with poisoned buns, and covering my sister’s escape with hotpot steam.
It wasn’t until I lifted Dr. Su’s lab coat that I discovered a key chip capable of paralyzing the machine city tucked into her acupuncture kit. “You thought the Avengers’ AI really had no sense of taste?”
