It started with a bowl of hot water.

Lin Wan’d worked till nine, stomach cramping so bad she could barely stand straight. She complained to Zhou Yang with a pitiful sticker. He said: “From now on, three meals a day — photo first, then you wait for my ‘eat.’ Not one meal skipped.”

“That strict? What if I’m in a meeting?”

“Then photo after. Meal can wait. Check-in can’t.” Then: “Your stomach’s under my protection now. You don’t take care of yourself, so I will.”

And that was that. Meal check-ins became load-bearing — like the morning greeting, like the evening kneel. A pillar.

Mornings: steamed buns and soy milk, buns steaming, straw in the cup. “Ready to eat. Requesting approval. Cabbage-pork buns, sweetened soy milk.”

He usually answered fast: “Eat. Two buns, finish the milk, no leftovers.”

So she ate two. One more, stuffed; one less, like letting him down. Once the milk was scalding and she blew on it till her cheeks hurt. He wrote: “Hot? Slow down. Nobody’s racing you. Chew.”

She stared at that. Nobody in her life had ever told her to eat slowly. She used to inhale — three bites a bun, two gulps of milk. That’s how the stomach got ruined.

Lunch: cafeteria tray photo. Sweet-and-sour pork, greens, rice, seaweed egg-drop soup. “Reporting. May I begin?”

“Eat. More meat — you’ve lost weight. Greens too. No picking.”