23: Chapter 23 Candlelight Dinner

Gurgle.

A dull rumble came from his stomach.

It wasn't a spring in a dream, but the hunger of reality.

Li Li opened his eyes.

The off-white vaulted ceiling, with its hidden lighting strips turned off, radiated a cold, aristocratic elegance in every line.

He stared at the ceiling as the stream of information in his brain replayed.

Transmigration. Dating Reality Show. Missiles. Electric scooter. The Seventh Prince of Dubai.

Why did he wake up?

His left wrist felt slightly hot, and a line of blue text lit up beneath his skin.

[ Ding! Emergency mission triggered! ]

[ Mission Name: Take the female guest out for a candlelight dinner ]

[ Mission Requirements: Take your partner, Jiang Rumu, to enjoy a candlelight dinner at the Burj Al Arab. ]

[ Evaluation Criteria: The dinner must be livestreamed as a mukbang; the higher the popularity, the higher the reward. ]

A candlelight dinner?

Li Li reached for his phone, and the screen lit up—7:03 PM.

He had slept for nearly three hours.

His stomach protested again, this time with a vibration.

He got out of bed barefoot, and the cold marble made him shiver.

Walking out of the bedroom, he heard the sound of a television in the living room on the first floor; it was Arabic news, spoken at a rapid pace.

He didn't rush downstairs, first scanning the corridor.

The door to the opposite bedroom was half-open, the bed was made, and that small suitcase stood quietly in the corner.

She wasn't there.

There were originally two streaming devices set up by the coffee table, but now only one remained, facing the window.

Li Li walked into Jiang Rumu's bedroom opposite and found his device on the nightstand—the lens cover was snapped shut, in standby mode, the red light off.

She had turned off his stream and even gone to the trouble of moving it here and setting it down properly.

He didn't think too much about it, flipped open the lens cover, pressed the power button, and the red light came on.

He then casually clipped the micro-lens onto his collar.

He went downstairs.

Turning the corner of the spiral staircase, the scene on the first floor unfolded.

Jiang Rumu was sitting cross-legged on the right side of the circular sofa, having kicked off the hotel's white disposable slippers and tossed them under the coffee table.

Over her expensive silk shirt, she wore a loose, pure white hotel bathrobe.

She held the remote control in her hand, flipping through channels.

Arabic news, click.

English news, click.

A bearded chef was brushing sauce onto a huge roasted lamb leg, glistening with oil.

Jiang Rumu's movements paused for two seconds.

Click.

A local Dubai food review show.

Click.

CNN, finally, not about food.

It was the billowing smoke rising from the airport after the missile strike.

She put down the remote and sat still.

Li Li walked over to the sofa and sat down a meter away from her.

"Didn't you sleep?"

"I woke up, woke up a bit after five." Jiang Rumu didn't turn her head, her gaze still fixed on the TV screen.

Li Li unlocked his phone, and the stream's chat was instantly flooded with messages.

[ He's up, he's up, he's up! Host, you're finally awake! ]

[ Holy crap, Mumu was super cute just now! She woke up and wanted to go to your room, pushed the door but it wouldn't open, and she scurried back like a thief! ]

[ Right, right, right! And then she peeked in, saw you were sleeping, and only then did she tiptoe in to turn off your device and move it! ]

[ The important part! Her hair was wet when she was wearing the bathrobe and getting the device! She'd just showered! She stood at your door for a full three seconds! ]

Li Li turned off the screen.

If the observational skills of these viewers were applied to criminal investigations, the cold case clearance rate in the country could triple.

He scanned the coffee table.

The fruit platter was still there, with only a few dates left.

The plate for the Kunafa dessert was empty, and only the bare stems of the grapes remained.

The boxes for the three servings of Baklava were stacked in the corner, also mostly eaten.

"Did you manage to contact anyone at the airport?"

"No." Jiang Rumu finally turned her head. "Shen Jue's WeChat and calls won't go through, and Director Pei isn't responding either."

She paused for a moment.

"The chat says that kind of underground bunker is completely sealed and only unlocks automatically after twenty-four hours."

They went in at one in the afternoon, so they won't be able to come out until tomorrow afternoon.

"Then the earliest they can arrive is tomorrow afternoon."

"Yeah."

Silence again.

Gurgle—

The sound wasn't loud, but in the spacious living room, it was exceptionally clear.

It wasn't Li Li's.

The top-tier actress with 34 million followers, sitting cross-legged on the sofa at the Burj Al Arab, wearing a loose bathrobe, had been betrayed by her own stomach.

Jiang Rumu's body stiffened.

She silently looked up and began to study the priceless crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

It was exactly the same as that time on the plane.

Li Li's mouth twitched, but he didn't laugh out loud.

"Have you eaten anything?"

"I had some Baklava."

"What about a proper meal?"

"No proper meal."

Jiang Rumu put down the remote control and rested her hands on her knees.

"I called room service at six, wanting to go to the restaurant to eat. The front desk said the hotel's food supplier had a problem. They were supposed to restock today, but as a result..."

She tilted her chin toward the missile footage on the CNN screen.

"...they didn't manage to. The guests at noon packed up too much food, clearing out the inventory. The kitchen sent people out to purchase supplies, but the roads are blocked everywhere, and they said the earliest we'll have anything to eat is tomorrow morning."

"What about the minibar?"

"I checked that too. A few bottles of alcohol, two bars of chocolate, and a can of cashews. I ate the chocolate and the cashews." She added, "I didn't touch the alcohol."

Burj Al Arab.

A top-tier global luxury hotel where the room rate for one night is enough for an average person to pay off half a year of mortgage.

No food to eat.

If this plot were written into a novel, it would probably be rejected by the editor with four words attached: illogical.

The chat in the livestream went completely crazy.

[ You've got to be kidding me? No food at the Burj Al Arab? I spent a whole day's worth of data just to watch you two starve in Dubai? ]

[ Hahahaha, now you're screwed. Brother Li can't possibly pull food out of his bag again, right? ]

[ That bag he scavenged snacks from on the plane? It should be empty by now! ]

[ Don't dream, sisters, he's not Doraemon! ]

Li Li looked at the chat, not saying a word.

He stood up.

The gazes of Jiang Rumu and the millions of viewers in the stream landed squarely on him.

He didn't walk toward the kitchen, nor did he walk toward the phone.

Instead, he walked toward the entryway, toward that bulging black backpack he had tossed in the corner and that everyone had mocked.

"Wait here."

---

Meanwhile.

Dubai International Airport, underground bunker.

The sixteenth hour of the lockdown.

The ventilation ducts hummed, and the air blowing down carried a mixture of rust and dust.

More than forty people were crammed into a space of over two hundred square meters, the smell of sweat, fear, and despair fermenting into a thick, viscous air.

Shen Jue squatted in the corner, his comma-shaped bangs completely collapsed, sticking to his forehead like a clump of seaweed.

On the ground in front of him were three military-green tin cans; no one could read the Arabic on them, only the production date—2019.

Shelf life, three years.

Expired for a year and a half.

"Can this stuff... be eaten?" He muttered to himself.

Han Xubai pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, which were crooked on his face, and squatted over listlessly.

"Expired for a year and a half, ingredients unknown, storage environment unknown. Food poisoning, gastroenteritis, anaphylactic shock—take your pick. As your lawyer, I advise..."

"Alright, alright, I won't eat it." Shen Jue pushed the cans further away.

Cen Ye crept back from the depths of the bunker, his buzz cut covered in dust.

He squatted down and pulled a few things from his cargo pants pockets, spreading them on the floor—two bottles of mineral water, a pack of opened compressed biscuits, and a box of dust-covered Arabic tea bags.

"Searched everywhere, this is all there is."

Shen Jue's eyes were fixed intently on that pack of compressed biscuits.

"How long expired?"

Cen Ye flipped it over to check the packaging.

"Two years."

Wen Ditang huddled in the corner, her fishtail braid undone, her chestnut-brown long hair draped messily over her shoulders.

She hugged her knees, whimpering softly.

"I'm so hungry..."

Her voice was soft and sweet, with a hint of a sob.

Yin Ruoying sat barefoot on the steps; those high heels she had been clutching since they started running for their lives were now being used as a weapon, tapping against the ground.

Qi Wanyin leaned against the inside of the thick blast door, calmly twisting the plain silver ring on her right ring finger.

"Wait another eight hours."

Her voice was without a ripple, as if she were announcing the time.

Director Pei Zhao sat on a folding chair in the corner, the string of good-luck beads he never left home without covered in dust.

He stared at the broken antenna on the walkie-talkie, opened the calculator on his phone, and tapped away rapidly.

Breach of contract penalties, insurance, equipment damage, public relations expenses...

An astronomical figure popped up.

He closed the calculator and looked up.

"Hold out until tomorrow noon." His voice was hoarse but exceptionally firm. "Get out alive, and everything else can be talked about."

In the corner, Cen Ye tore open that pack of two-year-expired compressed biscuits.

He broke off a piece and stuffed it into his mouth without changing his expression.

He chewed twice, his brows knitting into a knot, then forced it down.

He broke off another piece and handed it to Shen Jue.

Shen Jue stared at that grayish-colored biscuit, which gave off a stale, rancid smell, for three seconds.

He took it, closed his eyes, and shoved it into his mouth.

---

Burj Al Arab, Suite 2005.

Li Li, under the gaze of Jiang Rumu and nearly five million viewers in the stream, squatted down and unzipped that black backpack.

Zip—

It wasn't the sound of a snack's aluminum foil bag.

From underneath a pile of miscellaneous items, he pulled out five rectangular objects wrapped tightly in military-green vacuum-sealed thick foil bags.

On the packaging was printed a line of English that he didn't recognize, but Jiang Rumu did:

` MEAL, READY-TO-EAT, INDIVIDUAL `

Individual Tactical Rations.

Li Li tore open one of the packs and took out a self-heating bag, a pack of main course, a pack of beef jerky, and a small piece of chocolate.

He poured water into the self-heating bag and placed it on the expensive marble coffee table.

White steam hissed out, and the aroma of food began to permeate the air.

He looked up at the dumbfounded Jiang Rumu, then glanced at the lens flashing with a red light on his collar.

Then, he broke the complimentary piece of chocolate in half and handed her one piece.

"System mission."

He said with a straight face.

"Candlelight dinner, want to eat?"