I transmigrated into the role of the cold-blooded big shot's moonlight muse.
More precisely, the rice noodle rolls I made were the true moonlight muse in his heart.
Delicious, cheap, and filling.
During the worst year of his life, he was so hungry he was skin and bones. Clutching three yuan, he asked me:
"Can I buy a serving of rice noodle rolls?"
Holding my iron ladle, I looked at the future mastermind of high-IQ crimes.
He had no trace of menace about him. Shivering with cold, he looked at me timidly.
"I don't expect to eat for free. If I don't have enough money, I can wash dishes, mop the floor, and wait on customers."
"Once I've paid off what I owe for the rice noodle rolls, could you, could you make me another bowl?"
In that instant, I suddenly understood one thing.
The future villainous big shot was, at that moment, just a poor child who couldn't get enough to eat.
