The room was dark. Not the comfortable dark of nightfall or the hushed quiet of sleep, but a suffocating blackness made deliberate, broken only by the glint of candlelight reflected on a polished steel table.
Three figures sat around it. Their faces were half-hidden in shadow, but their voices carried—low, deliberate, sharp enough to slice the silence.
Alicia, cloaked in gray, leaned forward, her hands clasped loosely, though her stillness suggested control rather than comfort. Her voice had a quiet authority that carried the weight of command.
"Well? You were there, Riev. You saw him with your own eyes. Tell us—what do you think of Vincent Locke?"
Riev sat stiffly. His mask lay on the table beside him, revealing sharp features, some silver strands of hair sliding across his face and eyes that still carried the glow of the arena lights. He was the one who had been watching Vincent live. His gaze lingered on the flickering candle as though replaying the memory.
"Interesting," he said at last, his tone clipped, analytical. "He moves like an ordinary chef, but his execution… no wasted motion. Every cut, every placement on the plate, deliberate. That isn't talent alone. That's something else."
Logan, a tall man draped in black, gave a low chuckle, the sound rough as gravel. "You think he's hiding something?"
"Not hiding," Riev corrected. "Harnessing. There's a force inside him—different from what we know. Not like us. Not like anything I've seen. The judges praised balance, but what I saw wasn't balance. It was control. Ruthless control."
Alicia tilted her head, candlelight catching the curve of her jaw. "Control of chaos. That's rare."
Silence stretched between them, heavy, loaded.
Logan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "So, what do we do? If he's as unique as you say, then he'll be valuable to us. Or dangerous."
"Both," Riev replied simply.
Alicia's lips curved into a faint, cold smile. "Then he is worth watching. If his fire burns bright, we guide it. If it burns wild…" She let the words dangle in the air, unfinished, the meaning obvious.
Logan smirked. "Snuff it out."
The candle guttered violently, shadows twisting like serpents across their faces.
Alicia's eyes caught the dying flame. "For now, we wait. Let him cook. Let the world adore him. A rising flame always draws the eye..." She paused, her smile curdling into something colder, "...and that makes it much easier to crush in plain sight."
- - -
Meanwhile, across town.
Vincent had just entered his tiny apartment. He tossed his bag onto the couch, collapsed against the cushions, and pulled out his phone.
Notifications exploded across the screen. His name trended in bold letters. Fans posted pictures, clips, endless praise.
Chef Vincent's dish was pure genius!Goth smoky beef tortillas = ICONIC.
He's the one to beat.
Vincent couldn't help it—his lips split into a grin. His heart thumped against his chest as he scrolled, the glow of the screen painting his face.
He rubbed his eyes and laughed under his breath. "This hype is insane."
A sudden sneeze caught him off guard. He sniffled, blinking. "Great. Now I'm catching a cold?"
Then he muttered with a crooked smile, "Or maybe… someone's talking about me."
The words hung for a moment before the grin faded. His mind replayed the memory—the weight of a gaze in the arena. It hadn't been a trick of nerves. Someone had been watching him. Someone unlike the screaming fans or the eager judges.
He straightened, fingers tightening around his phone. "System."
A faint chime echoed in his mind.
[Yes, host.]
Vincent hesitated, lowering his voice as though the shadows in his apartment might be listening. "I had a feeling I was being watched at the competition. Did you detect anyone suspicious?"
There was a pause, longer than usual.
[Correct, host. One individual focused on you extensively.]
Vincent's pulse quickened. "And? Who? Why?"
[Analysis complete. This person exhibits no threat.]
He blinked, stunned. "No threat? What do you mean no threat? Someone stares holes through me the whole round, but you're telling me they're harmless?"
[Affirmative. This individual poses no danger to your survival at this stage.]
"At this stage?" Vincent repeated, his voice dropping. His chest tightened. "Then what's the point of watching me? If they don't want to hurt me, what do they want?"
The System was silent.
Vincent let out a shaky laugh, though no humor touched it. "Am I in danger or not?"
No reply came. Only the faint hum of the city through the window.
He set the phone down slowly, staring at the ceiling. His victory felt smaller now, edged with unease. He had no answers, only questions—and the sharp, crawling certainty that things are about go become complicated.
Across town, in the damp glow of a streetlamp, Alvaro pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The night air carried a bitter chill, but the colder thing was the sound of footsteps behind him.
He turned—and froze.
Two men in masks approached, their movements crisp, rehearsed. One carried a pistol low at his side, the gleam unmistakable.
"Alvaro De Vega?" one of them asked, voice muffled but firm.
Alvaro's mouth went dry. "Y-yes?"
"You'll come with us."
His heart hammered in his ribs. "Why? Who are you—?"
The second man raised the pistol, tilting it just enough for the streetlight to catch. "No questions. Get in the car."
A black sedan waited at the curb, engine purring like a predator.
Alvaro's throat tightened. He thought about running, but the barrel of the gun followed every twitch of his body. He forced his legs to move, each step stiff, mechanical.
The door opened, the dark interior yawning wide.
He hesitated.
The first man's voice dropped lower, colder. "We don't want to spill blood in the street. Move."
Alvaro swallowed hard, fear coiling in his stomach. He slid into the backseat, the leather cold against his skin. The masked men followed, one beside him, the other in the front. The doors slammed shut, sealing him inside.
The sedan pulled away, swallowed by the night.
Alvaro's mind raced. Who were they? What did they want? And why, after elimination, was he the one they'd come for?
His fingers dug into his knees as the city blurred past the windows.
The car disappeared into the shadows.
And the night held its breath.