Before we continue: where are you watching from, and what time is it there right now? 
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The restaurant fell silent when the plate shattered.
It wasn’t the kind of silence that felt peaceful. It was the kind that snapped tight, like a wire pulled too hard, vibrating with everybody’s need to watch without being seen watching.
Food slid across the polished floor in slow, humiliating streaks. A smear of sauce, a scatter of rice, a cracked chunk of ceramic that kept spinning like it couldn’t decide where to stop.
Wanji Mangi stood frozen, her fingers still curled as if the plate were still in her hands. Her breath came shallow. Her cheeks burned. The customers closest to her leaned back as though clumsiness was contagious.
And then the customer’s voice cut through the hush.
“Are you serious?” It was sharp, loud enough to announce superiority to the entire room. “Do you people train your staff at all?”
Wanji’s mouth opened, but the words didn’t arrive on time. Her body did what it had learned to do first: protect what mattered most.
Her left hand moved, instinctive, swift, shielding her stomach beneath the oversized uniform.
No one noticed. Not the customer, not the surrounding tables, not the couple pretending not to stare, not the laughter that came like a reflex from someone who didn’t want to be the only one uncomfortable.
No one except the man at the VIP table.
