CODENAME: PEONY

1. The Picked-Up Child

No one remembers in which year or which alley Peony was found.

In the records of Zero Nine Heavy Industry, only a short first line about her remains:
“Discovery location: back alley, next to a pile of garbage; age unknown; condition: starvation.”

It was raining that day. The neon signs of Chinatown began lighting up one by one, as if reluctantly opening their eyes. When the Boss walked through that alley with an umbrella, all she could see was a small white-furred ball curled up inside a cardboard box—first the tail twitched, then the eyes finally appeared. Violet-blue, wet, staring steadily at her. She did not cry or scream; she only stared.

The Boss crouched down. Her movements were firm, her tone firm as well—completely without the soft manner adults usually use with children.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you? Come with me. There’s food, but you follow the rules.”

Peony did not answer. She simply reached out and tightly gripped the hem of the Boss’s clothes, as if letting go even once would mean being abandoned by the world again.

The Boss neither picked her up nor offered a single word of comfort. She only tilted the umbrella a little toward Peony, then stood up and strode forward with long steps—as if saying, “Follow me. I won’t wait twice.”

From that day on, a small shadow appeared in the back kitchen of the Chinese restaurant, and one rule was established:
“This child is one of us.”

2. A Smile Is the Best Disguise.

Peony learned quickly, especially how to lower people’s guard.

By the age of ten, while pouring tea for customers, she could already count from the corner of her eye how many exits the restaurant had, whose hands were trembling at which table, and which briefcase carried by a man in a suit looked heavier than the others. The Boss never formally taught her the word “surveillance.” She only left one sentence when Peony failed her first mission and was crying in the warehouse:
“When you’re done crying, come out. Even if your eyes are swollen, smile. Make them believe this place is safe. This isn’t an act—it’s a skill. Practice.”

Peony mastered it.

Pink ribbon, fluffy white tail, gently swaying cat ears—Peony became the most popular poster girl of the Chinese restaurant. Customers all described her as “cheerful, like the sun.” No one knew that thin signal wires were sewn into the lining of that fluffy tail. When she carried dishes, she was actually passing information from one hand to another with the most natural movements.

“If you tie danger to a ribbon, the cuter it is, the more lethal it becomes.”

Those words described her perfectly.

3. Those “Mysterious Orders”

What Peony loved most were not ordinary days, but those order slips written with strange codes.

“Tonight’s wind direction is not favorable.”

The first time she received such a slip she was still small and did not understand the meaning. She only felt the paper was colder than usual and the ink smell stronger. At that moment her partner—a girl who always wore twin tails and looked a little calmer than Peony when she smiled—gently touched the back of Peony’s hand and said, “Leave this to us.”

Now she understands. The moment she receives the order, she holds the tray a little lighter and more steadily than usual, and fastens the third button of her apron one extra time—that is the signal only the two of them know: “Mission on. Follow me.”

During missions, Peony completely sheds the cheerful little-sister act she shows in the restaurant. Her movements are extremely quiet, light as a real cat walking at night. Her eyes no longer curve into crescent moons with a smile; they stare straight and calmly at the target, as if checking whether the heat of a dish is “just right.”

When the mission is over, she reports to the Boss in restaurant language:
“All the customers’ dishes are ready.”

The Boss usually replies with only one word:

“Understood.”

4. About the Boss’s Secrets

Peony has never called the Boss by any sweet nickname—she simply says “Boss,” or whispers “Onee-sama” when talking to her comrades. There is no blood relation between them, and no one ever questions it out loud.

The Boss is not the type to openly show affection. Her care is deeply hidden and hard to find unless you look carefully. On Peony’s birthday, a small bowl of red bean soup appears in a dish no one asks about. Every time Peony leaves for a mission, a tiny scrap of paper is always in the pocket of her apron with only two characters written on it—“Be careful.” The handwriting is cold and hard, but it is the Boss’s, and Peony knows it well.

Customers have asked, “What kind of person is the owner?”

Peony tilts her head and smiles as if she knows nothing.
“The owner? She’s the person who opens the shop properly every day.”

But she knows better than anyone. The reason the Boss rarely appears is not simply absence—it is because she has turned herself into every “just-right detail” of the restaurant: the regular sound of opening, the accuracy of the orders, and the never-late word “Understood.”

Peony asked only once:
“Onee-sama, who exactly are you?”

While wiping the knife in her hand, without even looking up, the Boss replied:
“The person who picked you up from the garbage pile and still doesn’t regret it.”

There was no further explanation, and none was needed. After those words, the two returned to their places—the Boss to the kitchen, Peony carrying a tray to the dining area. Certain relationships do not need to be explained in words; actions are enough.

1. The Picked-Up Child

2. A Smile Is the Best Disguise.

3. Those “Mysterious Orders”

4. About the Boss’s Secrets

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