Lab 3 was not a kitchen. It was not a laboratory. It was a cathedral dedicated to the worship of things unseen and unheard. The room was circular, vast, and achingly white. The walls were made of a sound-dampening, non-reflective material that seemed to swallow light, making the space feel both infinite and claustrophobic. In the center of the room, on a vibration-proof pedestal of black granite, sat Kenji's humble offering: the bowl of the Scrambled Progenitor. It looked small, lumpy, and profoundly out of place, like a muddy boot in an operating theater.
Dr. Inaba was in his element. The gentle, academic demeanor he had displayed in his office was gone, replaced by the focused, almost manic energy of a high priest about to conduct a sacred ritual. His eyes, magnified by a pair of high-tech goggles he had donned, darted around the room, checking readings on a dozen different monitors. He moved with a sense of purpose that made Kenji's own fraudulent existence feel even more pronounced.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Dr. Inaba breathed, his voice hushed with reverence, though it echoed slightly in the acoustically perfect room.
He gestured to a complex web of machinery surrounding the granite pedestal.
"This is our Bio-Acoustic Resonance Chamber. We can isolate and amplify the most subtle vibrations. The sound of a single cell dividing. The whisper of a plant's xylem drawing water. We have listened to the slow, sad song of a wilting flower. But this… this is something new. To listen to the memory of a consciousness that once was… it is a privilege."
Kenji just nodded, trying to look appropriately awed and not like a man who was actively calculating the blast radius if he were to throw a chair through the main control panel. Sato stood silently near the wall, her briefcase at her feet, her expression one of professional curiosity. She was playing the part of the dutiful assistant perfectly, but Kenji knew that behind her calm eyes, her mind was a supercomputer, scanning, cataloging, and memorizing every piece of technology in the room.
Two lab technicians, dressed in the same sterile white as the walls, entered. They moved with the silent, efficient grace of Dr. Inaba's other acolytes. They approached Kenji's scrambled eggs with a caution and respect usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.
"Prepare the micro-vibrational sensor array," Dr. Inaba commanded.
One of the technicians opened a case that looked like it contained a priceless violin. Inside, nestled in black velvet, were dozens of tiny, hair-thin filaments of what looked like spun glass, each one connected to a gossamer-thin wire. These were the sensors, delicate enough to register the flutter of a butterfly's wing from a mile away.
With the steady hands of surgeons, the technicians began the painstaking process of attaching the sensors to the dish. They didn't just place them on top. They inserted the tiny filaments into the scrambled egg mass, placing them at different depths and angles. Kenji watched, horrified and fascinated. His lumpy, accidental creation was being treated with more care and scientific rigor than most space missions.
"We must listen from every perspective," Dr. Inaba explained, seeing Kenji's expression.
"The surface memory, the textural narrative of the crust… that is one story. But the deep memory, the core trauma of the coagulation event… that is where the real truth lies."
Kenji just nodded again, making a mental note to ask Sato if "core trauma of the coagulation event" was a real scientific term.
Finally, the sensors were in place. The technicians retreated. It was time.
"Are you ready, Sensei?" Dr. Inaba asked, his face alight with the thrill of discovery.
"The truth is always ready to be heard," Kenji said, the line emerging from his mouth seemingly of its own accord. He was getting frighteningly good at this.
Dr. Inaba nodded and, with a ceremonial flourish, pressed a large, glowing button on the main control console. The lights in the chamber dimmed. The ambient hum ceased. A profound, absolute silence descended, so deep that Kenji could hear the frantic drumming of his own heart. On a massive, wall-sized monitor, a single, perfectly flat, green horizontal line appeared. The line of silence.
Kenji braced himself. This was it. The moment of his unmasking. The line would remain flat. Dr. Inaba would see that his dish was just a dish, a silent, inert pile of cooked protein. The jig would be up.
They waited. Ten seconds passed. An eternity. The line remained flat. Kenji's palms began to sweat.
Dr. Inaba leaned closer to the monitor, a slight frown touching his lips. "Curious," he murmured.
"The silence is… more silent than usual. A complete absence of resonance. Perhaps the consciousness is at peace? A state of culinary nirvana?"
And then, it happened.
It started not on the screen, but as a sound. A low, deep, rhythmic thump-thump… thump-thump… It was a sound Kenji knew intimately. It was the sound of his own terrified heart, now amplified by the absolute silence and his own panicked senses. But that wasn't the only sound. There was another. A low, guttural, groaning rumble.
Grrrrrrrrumble…
Kenji froze. He knew that sound too. It was the sound of his stomach, which, under the extreme stress and having missed breakfast, had decided that now was the perfect moment to voice its displeasure.
On the massive screen, the flat green line twitched. It shuddered. And then, it began to move. It formed a slow, undulating wave, a low-frequency oscillation that corresponded perfectly with the rumbling of his gut. Superimposed on top of that wave was a second, sharper, more rapid spike. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. His heartbeat.
The machine wasn't listening to the eggs. The sensors were so impossibly sensitive that they were picking up the micro-vibrations in the air, the sound waves generated by his own traitorous body, and interpreting them as data from the dish.
Dr. Inaba gasped. He stumbled back from the console, his eyes wide with utter, unadulterated shock and wonder.
"Incredible…" he whispered. "Do you see? Do you see it?"
Kenji stared at the screen, at the visual representation of his own indigestion and anxiety.
"I… I see it," he stammered.
"It is not a song," Dr. Inaba declared, his voice trembling with emotion.
"It is not a memory. It is a life sign! The dish is not just holding a memory of a consciousness; it has a consciousness! A primal, foundational life force! That low, undulating wave… it is the creature's breath! And the sharp spike… its heartbeat! It is alive!"
Sato, from her corner, had to physically turn away to hide the violent shudder of a suppressed laugh.
Kenji knew he had to play along. It was his only hope.
"Yes," he said, his voice a low, dramatic whisper.
"I did not want to presume. But… I have long suspected. The Progenitor… it does not merely remember life. It… retains it."
"This changes everything!" Dr. Inaba was now pacing back and forth, his mind clearly blown into a million tiny, excited pieces.
"This is not gastronomy! This is abiogenesis! The creation of a rudimentary life force from non-living organic matter through the application of chaotic energy and pure intention!"
He spun to face Kenji, his eyes blazing with the fire of a true convert.
"You are not a chef, Sensei! You are a god! You have created life from scrambled eggs!"
While Dr. Inaba was lost in his scientific rapture, Sato seized the opportunity. She unclipped the "vintage film camera" from the strap around her neck.
"Doctor," she said, her voice a perfect blend of awe and professionalism, "this is a historic moment. Forgive me, but I must document the readings. For posterity. For the article."
"Yes, yes, of course!" Dr. Inaba said, waving a dismissive hand, his attention fully on the screen displaying Kenji's heartbeat.
"Document everything! The world must know of this!"
Sato moved around the lab, her camera clicking away. She wasn't just taking pictures of the screen. She was taking detailed, high-resolution scans of everything. Of the chemical formulas scrawled on a nearby whiteboard. Of the schematics for a larger, more advanced bio-acoustic chamber. And of the subject of the "amphibian project," which was sitting on a lab bench in the corner. It was another dead, salted frog in a jar, but this one was hooked up to a complex array of electrodes and sensors. Next to it was a note that read:
"Subject 14-B. Acoustic resonance successfully silenced. Cellular memory wiped. Ready for compliance frequency imprinting."
She had it. The proof. The link between the tofu shop, the dead frogs, and the institute's terrifying research.
The experiment concluded with Dr. Inaba reluctantly powering down the machine. He approached Kenji with a reverence that was even more terrifying than Ayame's. He took Kenji's hand in both of his.
"Sensei," he said, his voice filled with emotion.
"I have spent my life listening to the whispers of the universe. But you… you have shown me how to hear its heartbeat. I have been a fool, working with my crude frogs and my imperfect theories. You are the key."
The audition was over. Kenji hadn't just passed. He had redefined the entire concept of the test. And he had a sinking feeling that his reward was going to be a promotion he desperately did not want.