Vincent sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, the springs creaking under his weight as if they, too, bore the tension coiling inside him. His eyes were locked on the small, battered notepad lying open in front of him. Scribbled words, crude sketches of plates, arrows pointing from one ingredient to another—it was chaos on paper, but within that chaos lived the spark of something greater.
The contest loomed only five days away. Five. The number tasted like iron in his mouth every time he counted it down. The system had guaranteed perfection for his first ten dishes, but only nine slots were filled. Nine weapons sharpened and ready, each dish executed flawlessly under the system's protection. But that last, final slot…
It was empty. A void. A risk.
A chance.
His fingers tightened around the pen, tapping against the paper in an erratic rhythm. He could already see the second round in his mind: a hall filled with judges whose eyes were sharper than any knife, whose tongues could destroy reputations with a single curl of disgust. The theme of that round wasn't replication. It was reinvention. Creativity. A battlefield where copying an old recipe was suicide.
The tenth dish couldn't simply be "perfect." It had to be unforgettable.
Vincent dragged a hand through his hair, his pulse racing faster as the thought clawed deeper. This is my one wildcard. One dish to prove that I'm not just riding on the system's guarantees—that I'm more than a puppet with recipes preloaded into my mind. This one has to be me.
He began scribbling again, sketches of garnishes blooming into a tangle of arrows: smoked fish with citrus foam, truffle-infused dumplings, seared duck layered over pomegranate glaze. He circled some, slashed through others. The page filled with what-ifs and maybes, ideas born and executed in the same breath.
The system would ensure flawless execution. But execution wasn't the battle. The creation was. The imagination. The artistry. That responsibility fell squarely on Vincent's shoulders.
"This has to be perfect," he muttered, his voice hoarse in the quiet room. His own words carried like an oath. "And… it will be."
Hours passed in a blur of ink and crumpled paper. Finally, when exhaustion numbed the edge of his thoughts, he leaned back with a long stretch, his back popping one joint at a time. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The contest wasn't just fought in kitchens—it was also fought in the public eye.
Social media would be the next battlefield.
He opened a brand-new account, its profile photo nothing more than a simple shot of him in a worn apron. His first post was brief, almost bare:
"I'll be competing in the City Culinary Challenge. Wish me luck."
He hit post.
The effect was immediate. His phone buzzed, then buzzed again. Within seconds it was vibrating non-stop, a machine gun of notifications rattling against his palm. Vincent blinked at the screen in disbelief as the numbers shot upward.
Fifty thousand followers. In half an hour.
Comments flooded in like a tidal wave, his screen exploding with emojis, gifs, and text so fast his thumb couldn't keep up.
"We believe in you!"
"Top chef, no doubt!"
"Can't wait to see you destroy the competition!"
"I knew it!! The park chef is finally getting recognition!"
One comment even featured fan art: a rough sketch of Vincent holding a spatula like a sword, his apron drawn like battle armor. He chuckled despite himself, shaking his head.
But nestled among the cheers was venom. Not everyone was celebrating.
"You think you can win? Ha!"
"This guy's hype is ridiculous. Total amateur."
"Some of us actually know cooking; this guy's nothing."
"Overrated, just another hype job."
"Amateur. They're wasting their time giving him attention."
"Why is this random chef famous?"
Vincent scrolled past them, letting it wash over him. He ignored it all. Criticism didn't matter—not yet. He had bigger concerns, bigger plans.
He was about to close the app when a new notification popped up. A private message. Unlike the flood of others, this one stopped him cold.
"Hope you're ready. Some of us don't play fair."
Vincent's heart skipped. This wasn't random trolling. It felt deliberate, targeted. A rival? A threat? His thumb hovered over reply before he snorted and tossed the phone onto the bed. No. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Let them talk. When the time came, they'd choke on his cooking.
Still, the words wormed their way into his chest. Some of us don't play fair.
The room seemed suddenly too small, the silence too sharp. He sat back down, staring at the notepad. His tenth dish stared back at him from the blank page, daring him.
A knock at the door made him flinch.
Who…?
Vincent froze. He wasn't expecting anyone. He never did. He'd been alone most of his life. His life was small, private. No friends dropping by, no relatives visiting—he had none. Since his parents' deaths in that crash, relatives had abandoned him. He'd been a ghost drifting through foster homes until the system spat him out at eighteen, alone. Every scrap of his life since then had been carved by his own hands.
The knock came again.
He rose cautiously, crossing the cramped apartment in slow, measured steps. His hand hovered over the knob before twisting it.
The hallway stretched before him, empty under the weak glow of the streetlight outside.
"Hello?" His voice cracked in the silence. No answer.
He was about to close the door when something caught his eye. A small package, plain and brown, sat neatly on the doormat.
Vincent's stomach tightened. He bent, lifting it gingerly. The wrapping was simple, unremarkable, but a single note was taped to the top.
In sharp, careful handwriting, it read:
"Use this wisely. It may save—or ruin—you."
The chill that slid down Vincent's spine rooted him in place. His fingers trembled as he turned the box over. No return address. No name. No clue. Just this… gift? Threat? Test?
He carried it back inside and set it on the desk beside his notepad. For a moment he simply stared, the seconds stretching into eternity. His pulse pounded in his ears, torn between tearing it open and throwing it straight into the trash.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered.
His mind raced with possibilities. Was it a rare ingredient? A secret tool? Or… something else entirely?
He glanced at his list of dishes again. The tenth slot. The one dish he had yet to create. Could this package be the key? The answer he needed to conquer the second round of the City Culinary Challenge?
Vincent felt a surge of determination. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline mixing with anticipation.
No one, not even the rival who had sent that message, could predict what I'm going to do.
And now, the real challenge awaited.