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    Summary

    Shen Qingqiu looks at the blood smeared all over the floor. He looks at the bloody cutting board and knife on the counter, devoid of meat. He looks at the puttering pot. He… he wouldn’t… 

    His mind is adding two plus two, but the answer is coming out blank. 

    “Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu says - his voice sounds distant from himself, absurdly calm and measured, a little cold. “Exactly what were you doing, sticking knives into yourself?” 

    Luo Binghe tenses up, looking like a terrified, frozen prey animal. Caught out. 

    “Your own flesh,” Shen Qingqiu says, far away. “You’ve put it in…?” 

    “It’s not bad,” Luo Binghe says desperately. He looks at Shen Qingqiu plaintively, almost begging. “Shizun, it’s not bad. I heal from any injury, so not even scars are left behind. Any pain is fleeting, it’s easy for me to ignore it. And-- and meat is meat, isn’t it? It’s still tasty, right? Shizun always loves it so much when I make it.” 

    ‘Always?’ 

    -

    Luo Binghe has a secret ingredient.

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