Dramatic Storytelling Voiceover

I was once the king of Hong Kong's restaurant industry, turning stone into gold. With one click of my tongue, I could shut down century-old establishments within three days; with one shake of my suit, reporters would swarm. Until Tang Niu publicly overturned my gilded sign—"You can't even fry an egg!" Until my own concoction of "black-hearted beef" sent a tycoon to the ICU. Falling from the clouds into the gutter takes only one night of torrential rain. On the stinking streets of Temple Street, Turkey with her twin cleavers pushed her only plate of char siu rice toward me. Soy sauce mixed with rainwater flowed down my throat, scalding my eyes. She wiped the butter from her knife and said, "God of Cookery, I believe in you." The oil lamp illuminated her grotesque scars, and suddenly I tasted something more precious than Michelin stars—a bowl of plain rice in destitution, hotter than the abalone at celebration banquets. When the "Explosive Pissing Beef Balls" became a sensation across Hong Kong, the bouncing meatballs cured a tycoon's anorexia. Turkey pressed her face against the meat grinder and laughed: "Using my ugly face to pound the meat makes it chewier!" In front of the reporters' cameras, I put my arm around her shoulder: "This is my business partner." Tang Niu sneered on television: "How dare Temple Street rats talk about cuisine?" The flashbulbs roasted my frozen smile—I should have seen it long ago: countless white bones are buried beneath the God of Cookery's throne. When the spotlight lit up at the God of Cookery competition, gunfire exploded. Turkey lunged toward me like a clumsy mother hen, and the bullet knocked out her trademark buck teeth. Blood soaked through that childish "love letter," and she mumbled in my arms: "Don't be afraid... I'm thick-skinned."