I, the delivery boy, have gustatory synaesthesia.
When you take a sip of water, you can see dead rats in the pipes of the water plant; when you take a bite of steamed buns, you can see the aunt in the kitchen kneading dough and picking her nose.
So I never eat takeout secretly.
Not for professional ethics, but for my appetite.
Until today, I picked up a bowl of wontons.
Sent to the 67th floor of a non-existent building.
As soon as the wontons were put down, a word condensed on the surface of the soup: "Taste."
I couldn't help it, so I took a drop of the soup and put it in my mouth.
The image flashed into my mind.
At three o'clock in the morning, an old man added gray-white powder to the soup. A woman was sucked out of life by a shadow, and her eyeballs turned gray-white.
Then, a countdown line appeared in my mind:
71 hours, 59 minutes and 58 seconds
[Task: Send this bowl of wontons to the customer again]
[Penalty for failure: cardiac arrest]
My little finger was broken three months ago.
The break was a tooth mark. I have no memory of what happened in those three months.
The phone lights up and a text message pops up:
"Did you taste her?"
I stared at the text message with cold sweat running down my back.
But when I finished typing, my hands stopped shaking.
"You have to pay more!"
