Vincent froze, staring at the small team of reporters striding toward him, as the crowd shifted and parted.
A woman In a crisp navy blazer emerged from the shifting crowd, flanked by a cameraman. The red recording light blinked steadily, a tiny glowing eye aimed straight at him.
The crowd stirred like a tide. Murmurs overlapped, excitement bubbling.
"Is that… a news crew?" someone whispered loudly enough for the whole park to hear.
"Yo, he's gonna be on TV!" another voice crowed. Phones shot up, the glowing screens multiplying like fireflies.
Vincent's pulse skipped, then began to hammer.
He had braced himself for crowds. For long lines, for word spreading because of Ethan's viral stream. But this—a professional camera shoved in his face, his name about to be captured, questions he couldn't dodge—this was a step too far.
His instincts screamed at him to run. But there was no escape. The crowd had parted for them like water, and retreating now would look worse than answering.
The anchor stopped before him, her smile honed sharp, perfected over a thousand other ambushes.
"Are you the owner of this food stall?" she asked, mic already raised.
Vincent's throat tightened. His palms slicked. He wiped them down his grease-stained apron, buying himself a second. "Uh… yes. I'm Vincent."
The cameraman zoomed in, his lens glinting under the streetlights. Customers who had lingered despite the sold-out sign pressed closer, eager to record their own angles. Some stood on crates, others leaned over shoulders, the murmur rising into a restless hum.
The reporter's smile widened. "Fantastic. Hello there, I'm Clara from Metro Local News. We've seen the buzz online—especially after Ethan Gray's livestream yesterday. The public's dying to know what's going on here. Do you mind if we ask a few questions?"
The crowd erupted.
"Say yes!"
"Come on, chef!"
"Give us the scoop!"
Every eye bore into him. Every phone's lens glared. His chest tightened. His mind screamed no—no, no, no—but his lips betrayed him.
"Sure."
A cheer broke out, raw and wild. Phones lifted higher, recording every twitch of his face.
Clara didn't waste a second. She angled the mic up, tilting her chin as if measuring him, then dove in with her practiced warmth.
"First of all, congratulations. It seems every dish you serve has people raving. How does it feel to sell out day after day?"
The question slammed into him. How did it feel? His knees wanted to buckle from exhaustion, his arms burned from chopping and stirring, and his brain was one thread away from snapping. But none of that could be spoken.
He forced a smile, sweat stinging his eyes under the glaring lights. "Honestly? Overwhelming. I never expected this kind of response. I'm grateful, but… it's a lot to handle."
The crowd clapped and hooted like he'd delivered a victory speech.
"Don't stop, chef!" someone yelled. "We'll keep lining up!"
The wave of approval only made the noose tighter.
Clara leaned in, sharp eyes glinting. "Your cooking has drawn an incredible crowd. People online are already calling you The Park Chef. What inspired you to start this here, of all places?"
The crowd leaned with her. Dozens of phones tilted forward, hungry for his answer.
Vincent swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. His head ticked through options: keep it vague, safe, small.
"I just… wanted to share good food," he said carefully, voice steady despite his racing heart. "I'm grateful people are enjoying it."
The words felt flimsy, but Clara lit up as though he'd delivered gold.
"Your food has captured the hearts—and stomachs—of this city. People are asking: will you open a restaurant?"
The word hit like a hammer. Restaurant.
The world muffled. His ears rang. That wasn't a casual question—that was the very mission hanging over his head, the one the system demanded. He had no choice. He could practically feel the system watching, waiting, ready to twist the knife.
His lips parted, dry as sand. For a second too long, silence stretched, his eyes darting to the crowd—faces lit with expectation, their chants already starting.
"Restaurant! Restaurant!"
The chant spread like wildfire, rattling his bones.
Vincent's mouth moved before his brain caught up. "…Yes. That's my dream. I'm working toward it right now. I can't give an exact date, but I'll make it happen. Soon."
The cheer nearly shook the ground. People jumped, phones flashing, hands clapping until palms stung.
"Open a restaurant!"
"We'll be there!"
"I'll camp out opening night!"
Clara beamed at the camera, victory gleaming in her teeth. "You heard it here first, everyone. The Park Chef isn't just a street legend—he's planning a restaurant. Stay tuned."
Vincent's stomach knotted so tight it hurt. He'd just locked himself into chains of his own making.
The segment wrapped quickly. The cameraman lowered his rig, Clara offered a perfunctory handshake that barely brushed his fingers, and the crew promised the piece would air tonight. Then they vanished, leaving chaos in their wake.
But the damage was irreversible. The spotlight had burned deep.
Customers pressed in with fresh fervor.
"Chef, don't forget tomorrow—bring double the supplies!"
"I'm dragging my whole family next time!"
"When that restaurant opens, I'll be your first regular!"
Their laughter swelled around him. He smiled weakly, bowing, deflecting, until finally—finally—they trickled off into the city.
The moment he was alone his legs buckled, and he sank onto a crate. His breath came ragged, the cool night air biting against his sweat-damp shirt.
"System," he muttered, voice raw. "You set me up, didn't you?"
The familiar blue glow shimmered into view.
[Host has made public declaration. Mission parameters reinforced. Failure to follow through will result in termination.]
Termination. The word stabbed colder than ever before.
Another notification blinked into existence:
[Public Support: +12]
[Credibility Bonus: +10]
The System's panel flickered again, lines of text scrolling across in cold precision:
[Notice: Social Influence Categories Unlocked]
[Public Support and Credibility Bonuses do not grant direct attribute points. However, they are linked to auxiliary reward structures.]
— Threshold Rewards: Every +50 accumulated in either category grants +5 System Points.
— Conversion Rate: Current option available — Exchange 10 units of either category for +1 System Point. (Warning: this will reduce corresponding influence.)
— Unlock Triggers: Certain system features, missions, and passive skills may only activate when thresholds are crossed. Monitor progress.
Vincent stared at the empty air, lips parting in disbelief. "…So I've basically got a popularity meter now?" He rubbed his temple, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Great. I can cook my lungs out, but now I also have to keep people cheering just to squeeze a few points out of this thing."
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Figures. Even the System's a fan of hype."
But the numbers mocked him. What good were stats against the suffocating weight in his chest? Tomorrow wasn't just about food anymore. It was a performance under floodlights, with the whole city waiting for him to stumble. His margin for error was shrinking to nothing.
By the time he packed up and pulled out of the park, dusk had already painted the sky in muted orange and purple. The hum of the food truck carried him down the road, but he barely registered it. His mind replayed the words he had spoken on an endless loop—the red light blinking, the chant roaring, Clara's predatory smile.
'I'll make it happen, soon.'
Soon meant deadlines. Soon meant exposure. Soon meant people digging into who he was, where he came from, why he suddenly appeared out of nowhere with skills no one could match.
The system chimed again, clinical as always:
[Mission trajectory adjusted. Restaurant establishment probability increased by 64%. Public expectation set. Deviation risk: severe.]
Vincent swallowed, palms clammy despite the cool air.
When he finally made it home, exhaustion hit in waves. He collapsed onto the couch, muscles twitching from hours of tension.
The screen blinked alive before him, pulsing ominously:
[Local News Segment: "The Park Chef" airing at 8PM.]
Vincent's stomach dropped. Thousands of people—maybe tens of thousands—would see his face tonight. There would be no turning back after this. By 8pm the whole city would know his name.
He stared at the screen, anxiety curling cold and heavy in his chest.
What once felt like a dream now pulsed like a countdown.