(Late 2051 — Sendai, Japan)
Kaiya Yamaguchi woke up to silence.
Not the cold, empty silence of space — this one was warmer, heavier, filled with the faint hum of an old refrigerator and the smell of soy sauce leaking from a cracked jar.
She blinked at the ceiling. Wooden beams. No neon ads, no flavor drones, no alien producers yelling "Action!"
Just Earth.
Her first thought was:
"Gravity's a little clingy."
She rolled out of bed, hair sticking out like she'd wrestled a microwave.
The first pot of ramen she'd made the night before sat abandoned on the stove — a congealed, semi-sentient mass that gurgled like it was plotting revenge.
She poked it with chopsticks.
It poked back.
"Okay," she muttered. "Still learning."
The harbor outside was half-frozen, waves slapping against the pier like tired applause.
Sendai's skyline shimmered faintly — modern glass and old wood tangled together like time couldn't decide what year it wanted to be.
Kaiya zipped her jacket and stepped outside, watching her breath turn to fog.
She hadn't seen snow in seven years.
Not since before she and Arin Sol blew up their culinary careers in Cubao.
Flashback — 2042, Cubao Grand Hotel
The kitchen was chaos — boiling pots, shouting chefs, and Arin singing "Hawak Kamay" at the top of his lungs while trying to flambé something that clearly didn't want to be flambéed.
Kaiya (18): "Arin, that sauce is still moving!"
Arin (22): grinning — "That's innovation!"
Kaiya: "That's bacterial warfare!"
Thirty minutes later, the entire hotel was trending.
#ArinSolAndThePoisonedBanquet.
#KaiyaPleaseComeBack.
Fired before dawn.
Siomai on the curb at 4 a.m.
Arin: "We made history."
Kaiya: "We made an ER queue."
They laughed until the sun came up.
Arin had looked at her then — the kind of look that sticks to you for a lifetime.
Arin: "One day, you'll cook for the universe, Kaiya. Don't forget to come home."
Seven years later, she did both.
Back to Sendai — 2051
Kaiya stood in her little ramen shop, a narrow corner unit by the pier.
She'd bought it with her prize money — not much left after taxes and existential dread.
The sign outside read:
OPEN LATE. DRIVE SAFE.
It was supposed to be a joke.
No one laughed yet.
She wiped the counter, humming the same jingle Arin used to sing in Cubao.
Somewhere between verses, her voice cracked — not from sadness, but from disuse.
A delivery bot rolled up to the door, beeping like a pigeon with anxiety.
Courier: "Delivery for Kai-ya-ya Yama-guchy?"
Kaiya: "Close enough."
The bot whirred. "Sender: Flavor Network. Contents: one package. Message: 'With Regret.'"
Kaiya stared at it.
The name alone made her stomach twist.
She tore the box open.
Inside — her golden plaque:
"SECOND-BEST CHEF IN THE GALAXY."
Cracked right through the middle.
There was a note taped on it, in someone's handwriting she didn't recognize:
"Retirement suits you. Don't come back unless you reinvent physics."
She laughed.
Then she cried.
Then she laughed again.
"Second-best," she whispered. "I'll take it."
She hung the plaque beside a framed recipe card that read:
'Lechon Miso — Arin Sol & Lira Vale, 2050.'
It tilted a little to the left, like it was bowing.
The First Bowl
That night, she cooked carefully — no quantum spices, no photon burners.
Just broth, noodles, miso, and time.
The smell filled the room.
Not perfection — just peace.
She tasted it and whispered,
"You're not special, but you're mine."
Outside, snow began to fall — slow, heavy, like the world was holding its breath.
The doorbell chimed.
Kaiya froze, mid-sip.
Nobody was supposed to be out here this late.
The door opened with a gust of wind.
A tall man stepped in — hood dusted white, face hidden by shadow.
He looked… solid. The kind of quiet that felt earned.
He didn't look around, didn't check the menu. Just stood there, the air bending around him like he'd brought his own gravity.
Kaiya cleared her throat.
"Uh… hi. We're closed."
He didn't move.
Just looked up, eyes dark but gentle, voice low and steady.
Stranger:
"I heard this place serves warmth."
Kaiya blinked.
Of all the lines—
"Sorry," she said. "We're out of warmth. I can offer mild disappointment, though."
A small smile touched his lips — barely.
He nodded once.
"I'll take it."
And for some reason, she laughed —
a soft, startled sound she hadn't heard from herself in months.
She ladled him a bowl, more out of instinct than choice.
Steam rose between them.
He took a seat, silent, careful, as if afraid to break the quiet.
Kaiya leaned on the counter, watching him.
There was something about the way he held his chopsticks — precise, deliberate.
Like a man who'd spent years holding something heavier.
Outside, the harbor lights flickered.
Snow gathered on the glass.
Kaiya didn't ask his name.
He didn't offer it.
But when he looked up again, the light hit his eyes —
and something in her chest shifted, like a song she hadn't heard since Cubao.
He finished the bowl, nodded once, and left.
No goodbye. No small talk. Just quiet footsteps fading into the snow.
Kaiya exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.
The seat he'd used was still warm.
She smiled, barely.
"Weird guy," she whispered. "Good timing, though."
She didn't know it yet —
but that was the first time the world started to taste right again.
[END OF ACT I]
(title card appears)
NEXT: "The Stranger and the Heat."
— where warmth becomes noise again.