Alvaro's wrists still tingled from where they had grabbed him. The two men who hauled him through the dim corridor weren't speaking, their footsteps dull against polished concrete. Fluorescent light hummed faintly overhead, throwing everything in pale blue. The smell of stale cigar smoke hit him even before they stopped.
One of them rapped twice on a heavy oak door. It opened without waiting for an answer.
Inside, the air changed. A broad office stretched before him, lined with dark shelves and walls heavy with framed awards. Gold-plated plaques, photographs of smiling chefs shaking hands with politicians, and the gleam of two separate glass cases—each holding a Michelin plaque—decorated the space like trophies from another world.
At the center of it all sat a man,his presence drawing the eye like gravity itself.
He wasn't just another executive in a tailored suit—this was Adrian Moretti, a figure whose name carried weight far beyond these walls. Owner of L'Aube Noire, one of the city's most celebrated restaurant establishments and a proud bearer of two Michelin stars, his influence stretched across the culinary world like a quiet empire. Critics whispered his words as gospel, chefs envied his empire, and investors sought his approval.
A gray suit draped over him as if the fabric itself feared to crease. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with meticulous precision. He leaned lazily into a high-back leather chair, one arm resting over the armrest while the other drummed idly on the desk. Beside him stood a younger man in a neat black suit, hands clasped, expression unreadable.
Adrian lifted his gaze. Steel eyes found Alvaro and held him there. Then he gestured lazily toward the chair across the desk.
"Sit."
Alvaro swallowed hard, throat tight. His legs moved before his mind did, dragging him into the seat.
Adrian studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was soft, yet it carried the kind of weight that bent rooms.
"Do you know what's at stake today?"
Alvaro clenched his fists in his lap. "Why am I here?"
Adrian's lips curled into a smile that wasn't a smile at all. "Because I see potential. And potential deserves… opportunity."
He nodded to his assistant, who slid a folder onto the desk and opened it. Inside were photographs—Alvaro's hospital visits, his daughter hooked to IV lines, medical bills stamped in red.
Alvaro froze. His breath hitched.
Adrian leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled. "You joined this competition to win money for your little girl, didn't you?"
Alvaro's heart hammered in his chest. "Leave her out of this."
"On the contrary," Adrian said, voice smooth. "She is precisely why you are here. You struggle, you sweat, you gamble on televised contests while your daughter suffers in a bed that grows colder by the day. I am here to take that burden from you."
Alvaro stared, torn between fury and desperate hope.
"What do you want from me?"
Adrian's smile widened, sharp and deliberate. "Information."
Silence stretched between them.
"Vincent Locke," He said, as if savoring the name. "The street cook who suddenly shines brighter than men who've spent decades building their empires. I want to know what makes him tick. His techniques. His secrets. Every little thing about him and his skills."
Alvaro's jaw tightened.
"You will work with him. Gain his trust. Feed me every scrap of knowledge he lets slip. Recipes. Strategies. Weaknesses. In return…" He flicked the folder. "I will pay your daughter's bills in full. I will back your career with the weight of my empire. Fame. Stability. Everything you've been fighting for."
The words were honey dipped in poison.
Alvaro forced himself to ask, "And if I say no?"
Adrian leaned fully forward. His casual smile dropped, revealing something colder.
"Then you should start preparing for the funeral. Children that sick do not wait forever."
Alvaro's stomach knotted.
Adrian continued, voice clipped now. "Refuse, and I can make sure no restaurant in this country—or the next five—will so much as let you wash their dishes. I can blacklist you with one phone call. Ruin your name, burn every bridge, and when you crawl back to that little girl, you'll do so empty-handed."
The assistant spoke for the first time, voice flat. "And accidents… happen. Gas leaks. Car brakes that fail. Things even the best insurance cannot cover."
Alvaro's breath came shallow.
Adrian tilted his head, like a man watching a bird trapped in a cage. "So. What will it be? Glory, money, and your daughter's life secured? Or ruin and regret?"
Alvaro's nails dug into his palm. Every instinct screamed at him to spit in Adrian's face, to throw the chair back and storm out. But then his daughter's laugh echoed in his memory—thin, tired, but still bright. The IV drip beside her bed. The bills he hid from her so she could smile without worry.
His chest ached with the weight of it.
He forced his voice to steady. "I'll… think about it."
Adrian leaned back, smile returning like a mask sliding back into place. "Good. That's all I ask. Think carefully. Tomorrow may be the most important day of your life."
The assistant closed the folder with a quiet snap. The sound felt like a prison door locking.
- - -
The Next Morning
Sunlight filtered through the curtains of Vincent's small rented apartment, painting thin lines across the counter where his knives gleamed. He hadn't slept much. His head was too full.
The final round was tomorrow. Signature dish. A single plate that defined him.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at the ingredients spread before him. On one side, the familiar—the base for his loaded fried rice. The dish that carried him from a street stall to a competition stage. The dish people had started calling his signature.
On the other side, the syrenthroot leaves, retrieved fresh from the inventory. The green shimmer along their veins was faint but undeniable, almost humming with energy.
"System," he muttered. "What should I do?"
The familiar screen blinked to life before his eyes.
[Signature Dish Round Approaches
Suggestion: Create a dish that embodies your cooking journey.
Reminder: Originality increases reward yield.
Risk factor: High.]
Vincent groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "That's… not helpful."
The screen blinked innocently, then faded.
He pushed away from the counter and started chopping anyway, letting the rhythm of the knife calm him. Diced onions, minced garlic, the sizzle of oil in the pan. He tossed in rice, moving with muscle memory. His loaded fried rice had carried him this far—flavor balanced, hearty, satisfying. But was it enough for the final?
He plated it, stared at it, then shook his head. Too safe. Too predictable.
He turned to the syrenthroot leaves. They looked almost alien, glowing faintly in the sunlight. He picked one carefully, tasted it.
It was his first time tasting them. To his surprise, they carried no flavor of their own—blank, almost empty—like a canvas waiting for the right dish to paint it with flavor.
He cycled through recipes without the leaves—shrimp, then beef, then chicken. Each attempt was different, each trial turned into a tug-of-war: bitterness spilling over, sweetness striking too hard, balance slipping through his fingers. He cursed under his breath, scraped pans clean, adjusted ratios, scribbled notes, and dove right back in.
Hours blurred. His counter filled with half-finished plates, the air rich with clashing aromas.
At one point he leaned on the counter, staring at two plates side by side—the fried rice and a new creation with syrenthroot infused into the sauce. His chest tightened.
"What do I even want to say with this dish?" he muttered.
Cooking wasn't just flavor—it was voice, memory, defiance. The fried rice was his past, the stall, the struggle. The syrenthroot dish was possibility, risk, the pull of the unknown. And Vincent? He had never been one to play it safe. He was chaos made flesh.
And tomorrow he had to choose.
The system's voice lingered in his mind like an echo. Originality increases reward yield. Risk factor: High.
Vincent let out a long breath, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Safety's bland. I don't cook bland."
But when he looked again at the fried rice, warm and familiar, he hesitated.
Because what if the risk wasn't worth it?
The question hung over him as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across his cluttered kitchen.
And somewhere across the city, Alvaro sat in silence, replaying threats that felt heavier than chains.