Leo returned to his apartment, his canvas bag of harvested vegetables feeling like a sack of priceless jewels. He laid them out on his clean kitchen counter: the luminous red tomatoes, the deep green lettuce, the vibrant orange carrots. They looked more like props from a fantasy movie than actual food.
He decided to conduct a baseline test first. He ate one of the cherry tomatoes raw. The skin popped in his mouth, releasing a torrent of sweet, tangy juice. The flavor was incredible, but the effect was what truly mattered. A pleasant, steady warmth spread through his chest, centering on his heart. His pulse, always a little rapid from stress and caffeine, seemed to settle into a calm, powerful, rhythmic beat. He felt… stronger. More robust.
Next, he tried a leaf of the lettuce. It was crisp and hydrating, with a flavor so clean it was almost like solid water. The effect was mental. The usual frantic buzzing in his brain, the constant to-do lists and anxieties, quieted down. His thoughts became orderly, sharp, and serene. It was like taking a deep, meditative breath for his mind.
He had it. Carrots for sight, tomatoes for vitality, lettuce for mental clarity. Each was a miracle product on its own. Now for the main experiment: combination and heat.
He set a small pot on his stove, a pot he'd meticulously scrubbed clean of any ramen residue. Into it, he poured a full bottle of Clarity water. As the pristine water began to heat, it didn't bubble violently like tap water; it seemed to simmer with a gentle, energetic pulse, releasing a clean, mineral-free steam into the air.
He roughly chopped two carrots and a few tomatoes and dropped them into the pot. The moment the vegetables hit the hot Clarity water, the air in his small kitchen transformed. A heavenly aroma filled the room, a scent so rich and wholesome it was intoxicating. It was the smell of a perfect summer garden, of rich earth and sun-ripened produce, concentrated into a single, mouth-watering fragrance.
He let it simmer, adding a pinch of salt—the only seasoning he dared to introduce. He didn't know how to cook. He wasn't a chef. He just let the ingredients do the work, stirring occasionally with a spoon, watching the colors deepen as the vegetables softened.
After twenty minutes, he poured the rustic, chunky soup into a bowl. The broth was a beautiful, light orange, and the steam rising from it seemed to shimmer. He took his first spoonful.
It was transcendent.
The flavors didn't just combine; they harmonized, creating a chord of taste that resonated through his entire body. The sweetness of the carrot, the bright tang of the tomato, and the life-giving purity of the water merged into something that was more than soup. It was a potion. It was liquid well-being.
The effects of the individual vegetables were still there, but they were amplified, woven together into a holistic wave of rejuvenation. His vision sharpened, his heartbeat grew strong and steady, and his mind settled into a state of profound peace. Every cell in his body seemed to hum with gratitude. It wasn't just healing; it was an upgrade. It made him feel powerful, complete.
He ate the entire bowl, scraping the bottom clean. He immediately felt a craving for more. A deep, gnawing addiction not born of chemicals, but of pure, unadulterated vitality. His body, having tasted perfection, now rejected anything less. The thought of eating a regular pizza or a cheap burger suddenly seemed revolting.
He could live on this food forever. He could get stronger, healthier, better with every meal.
And as he placed the empty bowl in the sink, a horrifying thought hit him, dousing his euphoria in ice water.
I butchered that.
He, Leo Costello, an ex-warehouse worker who considered instant ramen a staple food group, had been the first person to cook these divine ingredients. He hadn't seared or sautéed. He hadn't used fresh herbs or a mirepoix. He hadn't balanced the acidity. He had just... boiled them. He had taken ingredients that were a perfect 10 and, through his own culinary ignorance, had probably produced a soup that was a 6 at best.
The heavenly meal he had just eaten was, in all likelihood, the worst possible version of itself.
He imagined the same ingredients in the hands of a real chef. A Michelin-star chef. Someone who understood flavor profiles and cooking techniques. What could they create? What sublime, life-altering masterpiece could be crafted from these materials? The thought made his own rustic soup feel like a crime against nature.
A wave of regret washed over him. He had wasted the first batch.
Right then and there, he made a new resolution. He would not cook these ingredients again. He was not worthy. He would eat them raw to sustain himself, to enjoy their base effects. But the act of cooking them, of combining them into something greater, was a privilege reserved for a true artist.
He wouldn't sell carrots online for sixty dollars a pop. That was thinking too small. He now had a new, much grander long-term goal. One day, when he was rich enough, when his company was secure enough, he would hire the best chef in the world. He wouldn't just sell ingredients; he would orchestrate the creation of the most exclusive, most expensive, most beneficial dining experience in human history.
But until then, he would respect the craft. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was not the artist. He was just the guy who owned the quarry.