The Violent Taste of Capitalism

"Well, now do you have a grasp on reality?"

I approached the sobbing duke's lady with a thick capitalist smile curling my lips.

"Hic, sob... Stay back... I am the daughter of House Erzen..."

"Your family registry's already been torn up and digested in the demon king's gut, but you're still clinging to that title like a lifeline."

Ayla flinched at my mockery. The sound of her world crumbling rang in my ears like the cheerful chime of an ATM dispensing cash, but I didn't have long to savor the victor's leisure.

Even with the bunker entrance sealed shut with cement, making physical escape impossible, if Ayla's will was directed outward, the System would deem it illegal confinement. It was the vicious penalty from the System for physically derailing the original plot's trajectory with brute force. Lock her up by intimidation, and you'd get hammered by the Compulsion Force. I had to make this woman beg with her own mouth to let her stay here.

I was in the middle of devising an elaborate legal workaround in my head when—

-Groooowl!

A thunderous friction sound exploded through the silent bunker interior.

"……."

"……."

The air froze solid in an instant. Ayla's sniffling cut off abruptly, her tear- and snot-streaked face flushing tomato-red.

-Grrroowl, grrrk.

The raw cry of her stomach echoed again, no hallucination. She hadn't had a drop to drink since crawling through the sewers to evade the knights, and she'd been out cold from the sleeping pills I'd fed her. Her awakened body was now rabidly demanding calories for survival—a perfectly natural biological imperative. The emotional luxuries of despair and fear were shattering pitifully before the primal agony of immediate hunger. At the base of the human needs pyramid, biological starvation was devouring the duke's lady's fragile pride.

"Ah, looks like even a duke's lady has a belly clock that ticks just like us commoners'."

"Sh-shut your mouth! Th-this is just my body reacting from not circulating my qi for so long...!"

Ayla clutched her stomach fiercely and snapped back, but her cracked voice and unfocused eyes made her look like she'd collapse from malnutrition any second.

"W-water... Give me water."

Finally, her trembling hand reached out toward me.

"If I can't return to the Empire... at least treat me like a prisoner of war. Give me water and a scrap of bread."

I let out a hollow chuckle at her tearful attempt to salvage some noble dignity.

"Miss. Prisoner? Why the hell would I take you prisoner? I got no grudge against you, your house that could pay ransom is gone, and I sure as shit have no obligation to support you."

I patted the barrel of the M870 shotgun cradled in my arms, drawing a cold line.

"You're just a trespasser. No free handouts in this bunker. You gonna drain my resources without paying a dime? Bite your tongue and die then."

"Y-you're a demon... A beast worse than animals, without blood or tears!"

"In capitalist society, what higher praise is there? Anyway, I'm off to eat. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Enjoy."

I left Ayla grinding her teeth and glaring from the floor, whistling as I headed to the galley area.

I cracked open a fresh can of Spam, its pink flesh still gleaming invitingly. Fine raw, but true devil's weapon only after heat.

I heated the mess kit frying pan, pulled out my hunting knife, and chunked the Spam into 1.5-centimeter slabs, tossing them in.

-Sizzle!!!

The violent friction tore through the bunker's silence. The instant it hit the pan, condensed pork fat melted and boiled furiously. The Maillard reaction from protein and heat—its surface crisping golden, unleashing a supreme assault of sodium and fat aroma. Violence incarnate.

"Ah, smells killer."

The refined nobles of this romance fantasy world, raised on bland premium ingredients from mana-pure lands—their noses defenseless against modern civilization's ultimate MSG. Especially after days of starvation, this wasn't just food; it was a biochemical weapon.

"……!!"

Ayla's eyes snapped wide from her corner crouch. Her nostrils twitched unconsciously. An explosive oil scent that hammered straight into the brain, worlds apart from the subtle meat fragrances of imperial chefs.

'Wh-what the hell is that smell? Poison grilling?!'

Instinctively, she clapped her hands over nose and mouth. Monster food. Stake a noble's pride—never give in.

But her body betrayed reason utterly. Salivary glands screaming, she gulped loudly enough to hear.

"Whoops, hate to eat without you."

I bought 1 SP instant rice from the System Shop. Steaming white grains glistened as I tore the plastic. Casually topped it with two slices of freshly fried Spam. Oil from the meat seeped into the rice, shimmering alluringly.

"Miss, you're drooling."

I picked up my chopsticks and grinned at her.

"Wh-who's drooling?! That pig slop smell makes me wanna puke just sniffing it!"

Her face burned red, but her eyes were glued to my bowl, bulging.

I demonstratively lifted a slice of Spam, rice glistening with oil in her view, and prepared to shove it in.

"W-wait!"

Ayla's taut reason finally snapped. Ignoring her filthy dress bunching up, she crawled on knees to the table.

"Th-that... G-give me just one bite."

The historic moment: Erzen duke's lady begging sewer monster for a spoonful.

I paused my chopsticks and looked down. Target reached. Time to spring the trap.

I slid the Spam rice bowl across the table. Color bloomed on Ayla's face as her hands shot out desperately.

Thwack!

Just before contact, I slammed a document down on the table.

"……What's this?"

"Zone 17 Bunker full-time employment contract."

I recited the stiff paper's contents impassively.

"Employee: Ayla Erzen. Employer: Bunker Master Zeke. Fifty-two-hour workweek my ass—it's 24/7 constant labor. No monetary wage; compensated with two daily preserved meals and a 1.5-pyeong sleeping space, free of charge."

"Y-you madman...?! You dare make me, blood of a duke's house, do menial labor?! And what the hell is this slave contract?!"

"Slave? No, you provide me labor; I provide you survival. Rational quid pro quo. Outside, you'd be branded a witch and burned—what job's sweeter than this?"

I tapped the steaming Spam with my chopsticks.

"Choose. Sign, become my employee, and eat this oily bliss. Or cling to your noble ego and starve. Wanna leave? Be my guest. Go claw at that marble-sealed entrance."

Ayla panted raggedly. No escape. To survive here, become the 'eul' obeying my 'gap' rules.

"Sign and eat; refuse and starve. Good performance gets perks. Ten seconds."

I tossed a Monami ballpoint from my pocket onto the contract.

"Ten. Nine. Eight..."

Merciless countdown. Ayla's eyes darted between Spam and paper, agonized. Reason screamed rage; gut whispered surrender. Salty pork oil scent bleaching her brain cells white.

"Seven. Six..."

The grind of rationalizing gears turning.

"Three. Two..."

"G-give it... Give it here!"

Before one, Ayla lunged wildly for the chopsticks.

"Nuh-uh. Signature first."

I yanked the bowl back; she shrieked tearfully, snatching the pen and scrawling her name at the bottom. Chicken scratch, but perfect legal signature of her own will.

The red warning vanished crisply from view. I grinned wide.

"Welcome aboard, Employee Ayla. Dig in."

I slid the bowl over; dignity be damned, she buried her face in it. Shaking hands scooped a hunk of Spam and rice, shoving it in.

-Crunch.

Her eyes flew wide, red pupils dilating to the limit.

Flash!

A stun grenade in her skull—overwhelming shock. The bland, refined citadel of her palate shattered by one bite of Spam.

Assaulting saltiness whipping taste buds raw. Pork fat melting over tongue. Hot white rice neutralizing the violence, sweetening with every chew. Humanity's food engineering pinnacle forcibly snapped her reason.

"Hnnngh...!"

A groan of agony escaped. Jaw still working, tears gushed. Despair of crown prince's abandonment? Shame of cheap meat's perfection? Indiscernible sobs.

"Sob, hic... So good... What is this... Why's it this gooddd?!"

She wolfed it down like a starved stray. I savored the spectacle, arms crossed.

"Slow down. Choke and meds come ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from your non-wage."

Demonic whisper unanswered. She desperately swallowed tear-soaked rice, clutching the precious Monami pen to ensure tomorrow's ration.

Perfect defeat. Perfect domestication's dawn. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The original haughty villainess reduced to survival NPC and Bunker Employee #1—a sublime, salty moment.