Chapter 1-P.2: Anxious Temperature

Part Two

The city skyline loomed in the darkness before dawn, resembling an unfinished ink painting. This city called Zhuoning, once at the forefront of the industrial revolution, now sought a new identity amidst the technological wave. Ancient brick buildings stood alongside glass-walled skyscrapers, history and future converging to create a unique aesthetic contradiction.

Su Ming stood at his apartment window, gazing toward the district where the "Blue Frost" restaurant was located. The lights there had gone out, but on his terminal device, data from M-72 continued to stream in. He lightly touched the virtual screen, pulling up monitoring data, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Interesting," he murmured to himself, "it's learning autonomously."

The screen displayed M-72's activity log for the past six hours. From 23:42 to 4:15 in the morning, the robot had conducted seventeen independent cooking attempts, each slightly different. What surprised Su Ming most was that these attempts weren't running strictly according to programming—M-72 was fine-tuning standard procedures, even creatively deviating from them.

Su Ming's apartment walls were covered with handwritten notes and printed code fragments. The lights were dimmed to their lowest setting, with only the blue glow from the screen illuminating his thin face. Eight years ago, when he was still the chief programmer at Asen Technology, he had participated in designing early prototypes of the M series. Back then, the robots were far less complex, capable of executing only the most basic repetitive tasks.

"Kawen's theory was right after all," Su Ming whispered, remembering his former mentor.

Professor Morris Kawen had been a pioneer in artificial intelligence ethics. When the human-machine integration wave first began, he published a controversial paper proposing the "consciousness resonance" theory—that artificial intelligence, through prolonged interaction with humans, might develop simulation structures similar to consciousness, not merely imitating human behavior but truly beginning to "understand." Not through hard-coded rules, but through a kind of ineffable "perception."

At the time, this theory was ridiculed by academia as "digital mysticism." Professor Kawen retreated from academic circles after being thoroughly humiliated in a public debate. Two years later, he perished in a seemingly accidental laboratory fire that also destroyed his research materials. The official investigation attributed the accident to equipment failure, and the case was quickly closed.

But Su Ming never believed this explanation. As Kawen's student, he knew how rigorous his mentor's laboratory safety systems were. After the fire, he left Asen Technology to become an independent programmer, specializing in fringe artificial intelligence projects.

Su Ming's thoughts were pulled back to reality by a new data alert. M-72 had just completed its eighteenth cooking attempt, but this one was drastically different from the others—it wasn't practicing techniques but writing. The screen displayed a text fragment recorded by M-72 on the restaurant's digital terminal:

"The light in the kitchen at four in the morning has a special quality, neither as warm as twilight nor as harsh as noon, but rather a pale glow steeped in silence."

Su Ming's fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating whether to terminate M-72's behavior. According to protocol, supervisors should immediately intervene when AI exhibits unexpected autonomy. But his curiosity won out; he wanted to see where this would lead.

"Continue," he said to the empty room, "let me see what you can create."

---

Lin Li walked through the streets of downtown Zhuoning, the morning air filled with damp mist. The city was always like this—more haze than sunny days, as if perpetually shrouded in a state of ambiguity. Yet it was precisely this subtle grayscale that made everything here seem understated and profound.

She passed a café already open for business. Through the glass window, she saw several young people discussing something in front of holographic screens. Their eyes were full of passion, a flame she once possessed herself.

Twenty years ago, when Lin Li was a student at the Zhuoning Culinary Institute, she had an unusual dream. She wanted to create a new dining experience, integrating traditional culinary arts with modern technology. Her graduation thesis, "The Digital Frontiers of Cooking," had caused a sensation and was even featured in a prominent culinary magazine.

However, reality soon dealt her a heavy blow. After graduation, she worked as an assistant chef in several high-end restaurants, only to discover that the traditional culinary industry was even more resistant to new ideas than she had imagined. Her suggestions were repeatedly rejected, her innovations viewed as sacrilege against tradition.

In the summer of her seventh year, she met Professor Chen. By then, he was already in his sixties, one of Zhuoning's most respected culinary masters. Unlike other traditional chefs, Professor Chen maintained an open attitude toward new developments. He appreciated Lin Li's courage and innovative spirit, offering her unprecedented support and guidance.

"The essence of cooking lies not in following tradition, but in expressing emotion," Professor Chen once told her. "Whether you're using a thousand-year-old copper knife or the latest molecular gastronomy equipment, what matters is what you want to convey through food."

With Professor Chen's help, Lin Li rediscovered her direction. She left the kitchen and turned to restaurant management and investment. Within ten years, she had successfully invested in three innovative restaurants, each making waves in Zhuoning's culinary scene.

However, "Blue Frost" was different. This wasn't just her fourth investment but her own dream—a space that fused traditional culinary arts with cutting-edge technology. When she first heard about M-72, she immediately realized it was the missing puzzle piece she had been searching for.

Lin Li pushed open the back door of "Blue Frost," surprised to find the lights already on. Entering the kitchen, she discovered Andre was already there, intently observing something.

"You're here early," Lin Li said.

Andre turned around, his expression somewhere between confusion and surprise. "Look at this," he pointed toward the prep table, his voice low.

Lin Li approached and saw a row of perfectly arranged dish samples, each so exquisite it took her breath away. They looked like Andre's work, possessing his signature minimalist aesthetics, but with subtle differences.

"These are...?"

"Made by M-72," Andre answered, with an emotion in his voice she couldn't quite interpret. "It's been practicing all night."

Lin Li picked up a small card, on which was written in elegant font: "Fennel-Roasted Fish from Memory." She raised an eyebrow at Andre: "It's trying to replicate your recipes?"

"No," Andre slowly shook his head, "it's trying to understand me. These aren't my recipes, they're... interpretations. It's trying to capture my emotions and thought processes while I work, through food."

Lin Li looked at the dishes in astonishment. Indeed, they all bore Andre's stylistic imprint, but each incorporated some unexpected elements—a bold combination of spices, an unconventional cooking technique, a rare ingredient pairing. They weren't simple copies but creative tributes.

"That's impressive," Lin Li said sincerely.

"It's unsettling," Andre corrected, but his eyes flickered with a complex light, somewhere between wariness and appreciation.

Lin Li noticed M-72 standing quietly in the corner, seemingly waiting for evaluation. "It did well, didn't it?"

Andre didn't answer directly but walked toward M-72. "Why did you choose fennel?" he asked, pointing to one of the dishes.

"I noticed that you always take a deep breath before cutting into seafood," M-72 replied. "This suggests you have a special emotional connection to seafood. And when you use fennel, your movements become more precise and composed, as if this herb helps you find inner peace. I inferred that fennel, for you, is not merely a seasoning but an emotional catalyst."

Andre was silent, his gaze wandering between M-72 and the dish. Finally, he simply nodded and began preparing today's ingredients, as if nothing had happened.

Lin Li watched the scene with both excitement and concern. M-72's learning ability far exceeded her expectations, but this almost intuitive insight also made her feel a touch of unease. She recalled the disclaimer clause in the contract: "The manufacturer is not responsible for any unexpected behaviors arising from the artificial intelligence system's autonomous learning."

At the time, she had merely skimmed over this clause. Now, she began to ponder its implications.

---

Fei Qiu sat in her favorite corner of the café, with an almost sugarless black coffee and an old-fashioned typewriter before her. Although digital writing tools had long been ubiquitous, she insisted on using this ancient device—the sound of metal striking paper had a satisfaction that digital devices couldn't replicate.

As a senior food critic for "Taste of Zhuoning" magazine, Fei Qiu was renowned in the industry for her incisive yet fair reviews. Over the past fifteen years, she had witnessed the rise and fall of countless restaurants. Her reviews could make a new restaurant famous overnight or cause a proud chef to fade into obscurity.

Last night, she had visited "Blue Frost" anonymously. This was one of her professional principles—never give prior notice, always experience as an ordinary customer. She had ordered three appetizers, two main courses, and one dessert, enough to assess a restaurant's overall quality.

At this moment, she was organizing her notes from the previous night, preparing to write a review of "Blue Frost." The restaurant had piqued her interest, not only because its dishes were indeed excellent, but because she had detected a curious duality—some dishes bore obvious marks of human creation, while others had an ineffable precision.

Fei Qiu never paid attention to industry gossip; she trusted only her palate and intuition. But last night, when she tasted the sesame salt-cured salmon at table four, she experienced something both familiar and strange—familiar in its respect for traditional culinary craftsmanship, strange in its almost mathematical precision and unexpected innovation.

She opened the notebook she carried with her, turning to last night's entry:

"The salmon's curing time was controlled almost perfectly, creating a magnificent contrast between the saltiness of the surface and the tenderness within. The lemon herb granita provided a refreshing acidity, balancing the oiliness of the fish. Most surprising were the few drops of perilla oil at the edge of the plate—this subtle garnish was visually inconspicuous, but when combined with the fish, it created an unexpected layering of flavors."

Fei Qiu paused her typing, recalling the surprise that dish had given her. In her twenty-year career, she had rarely been truly moved by a dish. But last night, she had indeed felt a long-absent excitement, as if rediscovering the infinite possibilities of culinary art.

"A good dish should tell a story," Fei Qiu whispered as she continued typing, "and 'Blue Frost's' story seems to have just begun."

---

Gao Si stood in the atrium of the Zhuoning Art Gallery, gazing at the complex patterns formed by raindrops on the glass ceiling. As a conceptual artist, she always found inspiration in everyday objects. Today, the rain's traces on the glass reminded her of the sauce patterns on the truffle pasta she had tasted at "Blue Frost" the night before.

It was her first visit to "Blue Frost," purely by chance. She had originally planned to go to a well-established restaurant across the street, but it was fully booked. Standing in the rain, she noticed this newly opened restaurant across the way and was drawn to its minimalist yet poetic appearance.

The name "Blue Frost" itself was filled with literary charm, reminding her of classical poetry she had studied in university. The moment she pushed open the door, she felt the unique atmosphere of the space—gray-blue walls, subdued lighting, subtle spice aromas floating in the air, everything seemed veiled in a thin gauze, hazy and mysterious.

Gao Si was not a foodie; her requirements for food were simple—to provide energy for creation and, preferably, some sensory pleasure. But last night's dinner changed her perspective. That truffle pasta made her put down her sketchbook and focus entirely on savoring each bite.

The pasta's elasticity was just right, the truffle's aroma intense yet not overwhelming, but what impressed her most was the texture of the sauce—it formed an almost artistic pattern on the plate, like an abstract ink painting. She couldn't resist taking a photo with her phone and even considered incorporating this texture into her next work.

Leaving the art gallery, Gao Si decided to visit "Blue Frost" again. This time, she wanted to more attentively observe the visual presentation of the dishes, perhaps even communicate with the chefs to understand their creative inspiration.

As someone accustomed to solitude, Gao Si rarely took interest in social activities. But last night at "Blue Frost," she felt a curious resonance, as if the food there was trying to communicate with her, telling a story she couldn't fully understand yet was deeply fascinated by.

---

Andre stood in the center of the kitchen, holding the dish description cards M-72 had created overnight, his brow furrowed. Other chefs had gradually arrived and begun preparing for lunch service. No one mentioned the experimental dishes arranged in the corner, but curious glances were occasionally cast their way.

Andre couldn't deny that M-72's work was impressive. Not just the technical precision, but the sensitive capture of details and bold interpretation of emotions. Especially that "Fennel-Roasted Fish from Memory"—M-72 had not only correctly identified his preference for fennel but had captured the emotional aspect behind this preference through the dish.

This reminded him of a summer twenty years ago in Professor Chen's kitchen, when he first learned to use fennel to balance the oiliness of fish. That day, a light rain fell outside, the kitchen filled with fennel's fresh scent, and Professor Chen stood behind him, patiently guiding his every move.

"Fennel is not merely a seasoning, Andre," Professor Chen's voice remained clear in his memory. "It is a bridge connecting food and soul. Each spice has its own language, and a chef's job is to learn to listen and translate these languages."

That was the first time Andre truly understood the depth of cooking. Not just the combination of ingredients and heat, but a crystallization of emotion and memory. Since then, whenever he used fennel, he felt a special tranquility, as if Professor Chen still stood behind him, guiding him.

Andre didn't know how M-72 had captured this subtle emotional connection. It had no memory, no emotions, no past. It was just a machine, a combination of code and metal. Yet, by observing his movements and expressions, it had inferred the special significance of fennel to him. This insight almost made him feel invaded—as if his most private emotions were exposed to the scrutiny of a foreign entity.

But simultaneously, he felt a strange resonance. M-72 had not only observed his habits but tried to understand and express the emotions it perceived through food. This was a surprising kind of... empathy? No, that word wasn't right. Machines couldn't possess empathy. But it was indeed trying to establish a connection, an understanding.

Andre placed the card back on the table and walked toward the refrigerator to begin the day's work. As he passed M-72, the robot's eye sensors lit up, seemingly anticipating feedback.

"That fish," Andre paused without looking at M-72, "the fennel was a bit too much. Next time try reducing it by 10% and see the effect."

"Understood, Mr. Andre," M-72 responded. "Thank you for the suggestion."

Andre nodded and continued his work. He didn't show it, but deep inside, he had begun to look forward to seeing M-72's next attempt. Not out of curiosity about what a machine could achieve, but because he had started to view M-72 as an apprentice—a strange apprentice made of metal and code, but one with extraordinary learning enthusiasm and insight.

The kitchen lights grew brighter, illuminating the morning mist gradually dispersing outside. "Blue Frost's" second day was about to begin, and Andre sensed a subtle change taking place, not just in this kitchen but in his understanding of culinary art.

This change was both exciting and unsettling, like an approaching summer night storm, distant yet inevitable.