The next morning, Vincent set out with his supplies. He rolled his food truck out of its usual spot, the engine rumbling low beneath him. The metal frame rattled faintly with every bump on the road, its painted sides still smelling faintly of grease and spices from the day before. He expected the streets to feel normal—just another morning, another round of serving until exhaustion hit. But as he turned onto the main road leading to the park, something felt off. The air was different.
It was buzzing. Louder than usual.
For a fleeting second, he wondered if his fatigue was playing tricks on him. He hadn't slept much, just enough to keep his body moving. But no—this wasn't exhaustion. The closer he drew to the park, the sharper it became.
Crowds.
Whole crowds of people moving with purpose, their footsteps all angled in the same direction as him. Families tugging children along, students clustered in groups, office workers with their ties loosened and bags slung over one shoulder. They carried an eager spark in their eyes, a kind of restless anticipation that made Vincent's chest tighten.
Some of them had their phones out, screens glowing with maps. Pinned locations blinked bright red against digital maps.
The crowd wasn't a trickle. It wasn't even a steady stream. It was a tide.
He overheard a young man explaining loudly to his friend, "Yeah, Ethan Gray's live review. He said the stall's here—just follow the pin!"
Vincent's stomach flipped. Ethan Gray. That single name pulled this many people?
By the time he arrived at the edge of the park, his jaw nearly hit the ground. The line wasn't just long—it was monstrous.
It stretched far, curling around the sidewalk like a coiled snake, snaking between benches and looping around a cluster of trees. Easily three hundred people, maybe more. Some stood on tiptoes to peek ahead, others craned their necks to catch a glimpse of his stall like it was a rare celebrity appearance.
The air Itself seemed to buzz. Not just with sound, but with expectation.
It was like a festival right before the main act began, that hush before fireworks exploded. Except here, the fireworks were burgers, rice bowls, and tea.
Voices overlapped in chaotic symphonies:
"I came all the way from the next district for this!"
"Forget the rice bowls, we have to get the truffle burger—Ethan said it's one of his favorites."
"No, no, the hibiscus iced tea. That's a must-have. He swore by it!"
"Record everything, okay? We're posting this live!"
The buzz wasn't passive either. People were already recording short clips, narrating their excitement like seasoned food vloggers. A few were livestreaming, panning their cameras from the length of the line all the way to the empty stall space where Vincent was just arriving.
Others had dragged along entire friend groups. A group of high schoolers argued over who'd order which dish so they could "try everything." A pair of office workers whispered about whether their boss would notice them being late because they "absolutely had to taste this."
Vincent froze for a heartbeat. Then instinct kicked in.
He moved.
His hands worked before his brain could. He unfolded tables, aligned chairs, set down utensils. He wasn't alone either. Like yesterday, people stepped up without hesitation. Students rushed forward to wipe down tables. A couple of guys adjusted the canopy so the shade stretched wider. Someone even helped him align the propane tank to make sure it sat safe and steady.
It was unreal.
It didn't feel like he was running a stall anymore—it felt like he was manning a battlefield outpost, soldiers at his side.
And then, it began.
The orders.
At first, steady—just one or two customers stepping up, phones recording as they placed their first purchase. But then it snowballed.
"Three burgers, please!"
"Two teas and one rice bowl!"
"Hey, make that four iced teas—my friends want some!"
It turned into an avalanche. Voices shouted over each other, eager hands waved, orders blurred together. People were yelling across the line to their friends, convincing them to try more dishes.
"Get two burgers, I'll pay you back later!"
"Make it three teas, we're sharing!"
Some who had come yesterday were back, grinning sheepishly but shameless.
"Couldn't resist," one confessed. "Had to bring my sister this time."
Vincent's body blurred into motion. His knives chopped with crisp, ringing precision. Pans sizzled, sending up a chorus of crackles that seemed to match the thrum of voices outside. Aromas of roasted meat, garlic, truffle oil, and sizzling vegetables thickened the air, drawing even more curious onlookers to peek from the park entrance.
Something felt different this time.
Yesterday, his muscles had screamed. His lungs had burned. But today… today, there was something new. His body moved with a sharpness he hadn't known before. Faster, smoother, precise. The stat boost was kicking in. His stamina didn't crumble under the flood of activity. His rhythm didn't break him apart—it lifted him.
I can keep up, he realized, flipping patties with practiced ease. I can actually keep up.
But the line didn't care about his revelations.
They were endless.
No matter how fast he cooked, the orders piled higher, his makeshift menu wiped nearly clean within hours. Despite stocking more than he ever had before, his supplies dwindled with frightening speed.
And then, the words no vendor wanted to say:
"Sorry—that's it. I'm sold out."
A sharp gasp rose near the back of the line.
"Wait, that's it?!" a woman exclaimed.
"Aw, man, I was so close."
"Guess I'll just have to come earlier tomorrow," another muttered.
A ripple of disappointment rolled through the crowd. For a heartbeat, Vincent feared backlash. Booing, maybe even anger. But the ripple didn't break him—it hardened.
Determination replaced frustration. Already, people were pulling out their phones to set alarms. Some were joking about camping overnight.
Vincent, wiping sweat from his brow, lifted his voice just enough to carry. "I'll make sure to bring more tomorrow. Today just… got out of hand. But I'll be ready."
Laughter broke the tension.
"You better! With Ethan Gray hyping you up, this place is about to blow up even more."
"Yeah, just don't forget us regulars when you're drowning in customers."
Vincent chuckled, his voice rough but warm. "Don't worry. I'll remember."
The crowd dispersed reluctantly, many staying long enough to snap one last picture, record one last TikTok, narrate one last little review before uploading it live.
Vincent sagged against the table, letting the exhaustion finally seep into his bones. He began to clean. Stacked empty trays. Wiped grease from counters. Packed crates. His body ached—but not the same bone-crushing ache as before. He wasn't broken this time.
There was still energy in him.
He caught himself grinning like a fool. It's working. It's really working.
And then—
A stir at the far end of the path.
Low at first. Then rising. Heads turned. Conversations cut short. Phones lifted.
A crew was approaching.
Not customers. Not students. Not neighbors.
A TV news crew.
Cameras gleamed in the sunlight, lenses trained like weapons. Microphones with bright station logos jutted forward. The cameraman adjusted his focus while the reporter rehearsed words under her breath.
"They're here," someone whispered.
"Oh my god, actual TV?"
The crowd didn't leave. They surged back, forming a half-circle around the stall, their excitement swelling into an almost electric hum. Phones shot up to record the moment.
Vincent froze mid-pack, a crate half-lifted in his arms. His heart slammed against his ribs.
He realized his little stall had just crossed another line.
Yesterday, it was word of mouth. Today, it was headlines.
Tomorrow—
Who knew?