老王打包的速度越来越快，后厨里其他人都不自觉地跟着他的节奏。 Usually, the end-of-day rush would be a mad dash, boxes clattering, voices shouting. But with Wang at the center, it was more like a well-rehearsed dance, each movement precise, each box placed with a finality that spoke of years of practice under pressure.

"Next!" the foreman barked, pointing a grease-stained finger at the next order. "This one's for the penthouse suite. Needs to be perfect."

老王没抬头，只是应了一声。他走到那堆餐盒前，手指翻飞间，又是几下，一个精致的打包盒出现在他手中。 The way his fingers moved suggested he wasn't just packing food; he was performing a delicate operation, each motion measured, each touch deliberate. The foreman watched for a moment, then nodded. In his years in the kitchen, he'd seen many cooks, but none quite like Wang. There was a stillness about him, a calm that could turn into a storm if provoked. But right now, that calm was channelled into efficiency, into the smooth packing of takeout boxes.