Silence. Then, the happy, gentle drip… drip… of a perfectly clean pipe.

For ten seconds, nothing happened. The water pooled in the sink basin.

“It was never alive,” he said, packing up his bucket. “It was just clogged. You didn’t fight the drain, Marta. You used chemistry. Just remember—respect the soda, or the soda will respect nothing.”

The timer beeped. Marta returned to the sink, still in her gloves and goggles. She turned on the cold tap—full blast.

“It’s working,” Mr. Henley smiled. “That sound? That’s the grease turning into soap. That’s the hair dissolving into goo.”

A faint heat shimmered up. The drain hissed softly, like an angry cat.

Mr. Henley had her open every window in the kitchen. “Fumes,” he said. “You’re not seasoning a steak.”