Caleb Vance moved like a highly trained operative preparing for a hostage situation, except the hostage was a wildly profitable yeast culture, and the hostile environment was Eliza's kitchen.
He arrived at 7:00 AM sharp, armed with boxes labeled "Q1 Metrics & Miscellany," a sleek, folding ergonomic desk designed by a Danish minimalist, and a handheld black light.
Eliza, still in a novelty t-shirt that read 'I CAME. I SAW. I CONQUERED THE COUCH,' watched from the doorway, cradling a mug of instant coffee. "I thought we were easing into this partnership. You look like you're staging an intervention."
"Efficiency dictates swift implementation," Caleb replied, not looking up as he used a laser measurer to calculate the optimal distance between the refrigerator and the primary work surface. "Rule #1 of the SOP: 'All surfaces must maintain a cleanliness rating of 95% or higher, as assessed hourly.' I need to establish a baseline."
He flicked the black light on. It immediately illuminated what appeared to be an abstract expressionist painting made of flour, spilled sugar, and what Eliza suspected was crystallized hope, all over the chipped Formica.
Caleb visibly flinched. "The current cleanliness rating is 37%. Unacceptable. We will allocate the first hour to remediation."
"That's character, Caleb! It's the patina of a working artist!" Eliza argued, but Caleb was already producing industrial-grade sanitation wipes.
Within thirty minutes, the kitchen had been sterilized, organized, and optimized. Caleb's minimalist desk—a marvel of engineering that folded out of a briefcase—now dominated the space. He had also installed a small, digital thermometer near Larry and his dozen "offspring" (Larry's children, destined to be the $500 'Stoic Spelt' starters).
"This thermometer sends real-time temperature data directly to my server," Caleb explained, clicking rapidly on his laptop. "I've programmed an algorithm that tracks the yeast's activity levels using atmospheric pressure and localized micro-vibrations."
"You are tracking the feelings of a microscopic fungus?" Eliza deadpanned, watching him with fascination.
"I am tracking the viability metrics of a highly sensitive, volatile asset," he corrected, his eyes glued to a graph titled "Larry: Beta Activity Spike (Initial Feeding)." "Your part, Eliza, is the 'emotional labor' component." He slid a pristine notebook and a titanium-cased pen toward her.
"The first customer for the Stoic Spelt tier is a Mrs. Constance Vanderhoof. She is an avid collector of unique assets, lives in the penthouse of the Carlyle, and requires an individualized, hand-written 'Leaven-tide Report' daily. Your focus must be on cultivating the perception of an artisanal relationship."
"A report? Like a mood diary?" Eliza picked up the pen.
"Precisely. But scientifically based, naturally." Caleb opened a new tab on his spreadsheet. "I've created a lexicon of approved, high-value adjectives you must use based on my data. If the beta activity is low, you use: Contemplative, Philosophically Challenged, or Restrained. If the activity is high, you use: Rambunctious, Audaciously Ebullient, or Financially Promising."
Eliza burst out laughing, a sound that made Caleb jump slightly. It was a genuine, unrestrained sound of pure amusement, and it seemed to disrupt the carefully calculated silence of his world.
"You, Mr. Vance, are the most romantically-challenged person I've ever met, and you are selling a luxury product based entirely on my ability to wax poetic about gas bubbles," she said, shaking her head. "This is insane."
"It is financially sound insanity," Caleb countered, though his lips twitched almost imperceptibly. He found her amusement, which was usually directed at him, deeply distracting.
He cleared his throat. "Now, I must organize the inventory. I've designated the lower shelf of your spice rack as the 'High-Security Flour Depository.' Where, precisely, is the rest of your proprietary flour blend stored?"
Eliza pointed casually toward a large, unlabeled plastic tub sitting on the floor by the back door. "Oh, that's where I keep the bulk supply. That's probably, what, twenty pounds of whole wheat and rye?"
Caleb squinted at the tub. "It seems… dusty." He bent down and pulled the lid off.
A small, gray mouse—not necessarily Stoic Spelt quality, but certainly highly active—darted out of the tub and across Caleb's perfectly clean shoe.
Eliza gasped. Caleb did not scream. He did not yell. He simply stood up, slowly, his expression frozen in a mask of controlled, high-level fiscal distress.
"That," Caleb stated, his voice dangerously low, "is an unacceptable variable cost and a catastrophic breach of sanitation protocol. The cleanliness rating just dropped to zero."
Eliza, trying not to laugh at the sight of the mouse disappearing behind the washing machine, could only offer an apologetic shrug. "Well, on the bright side, at least we know the environment is conducive to life?"
The mouse had escaped, but the battle for the kitchen had just begun.