Vincent sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the muted television. His apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the muffled chatter of life in the street below. The television's glow flickered across the room, casting shadows over the peeling wallpaper and the sagging couch.
On screen, the news played a loop of yesterday's horror: the stadium, once a place of celebration, now a smoldering ruin. Smoke curled from the shattered stands, fire crews sprayed hoses into collapsed corridors, and rows of stretchers carried bodies draped in white sheets.
Vincent swallowed hard, his throat dry. The anchor's voice filled the room when he unmuted the TV, calm and detached, almost clinical against the images of carnage:
"Authorities have confirmed that no survivors were found at the stadium after yesterday's devastating blast. Officials are attributing the cause of the explosion to an electrical fire in the maintenance tunnels, which triggered a secondary blast from a ruptured gas line. The resulting collapse left the arena unstable, making rescue efforts nearly impossible."
Vincent leaned forward, his knuckles whitening against the mattress.
No survivors?
His pulse quickened. He was alive. He'd walked out of that inferno, his body scraped and bloodied, his mind barely intact. And yet, here was the news—blandly, confidently—telling the world there had been none.
He rubbed his temples, the memory of screams and fire crashing against the calm monotone of the anchor. Something didn't fit. He knew what he had seen, what he had felt. That first blast had been too sharp, too sudden. It wasn't the sluggish flicker of an electrical fire. It had been fast, violent, purposeful.
And then the secondary roar—yes, that could have been gas lines—but the first? His instincts screamed otherwise.
"Couldn't have been just a fire," he muttered.
Still, he shook his head, forcing the thought away. What did he know about explosives? He was no expert. Maybe shock was clouding his memory. Maybe trauma twisted the facts. Maybe… maybe the authorities were right.
But deep down, a knot of suspicion remained, coiled tight in his chest. Something about it was wrong.
He reached for the remote and muted the TV again, unable to listen to the polished reassurances any longer. Silence rushed back into the room, heavy and suffocating.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up, thumb swiping across glowing notifications. Social media feeds were clogged with disbelief, speculation, and conspiracy theories.
"How could anyone survive that?"
"Only a miracle…"
"The authorities should investigate survivors carefully."
"It's a cover-up. There's no way that was an accident."
Vincent's stomach twisted. Each post felt like a spotlight aimed squarely at him. They didn't know it, but they were talking about him—the lone survivor who shouldn't exist.
He tossed the phone aside and dragged both hands down his face, trying to ground himself. But the memory of the voice returned, sharp and unrelenting, echoing in the back of his mind:
[Host. You have five minutes to leave the scene. Survival is contingent upon discretion. Begin the first mission immediately.]
Even now, just remembering it made his skin crawl. Cold. Mechanical. Ruthless. The system wasn't human, and it didn't pretend to be. Its words hadn't comforted him; they had shackled him.
Discretion. Survival. Mission.
He looked around his small apartment. Sparse, modest, mismatched furniture collected over the years. The faint smell of last night's instant noodles clung to the air. Nothing about this space screamed "restaurant." Nothing screamed mission success.
And yet this was where he had to begin.
Vincent stood and paced, running a hand through his hair. He had to plan. He had to start somewhere, somehow. The system had chosen him. He didn't know why, but he was alive because of it—or despite it.
His eyes drifted to the coffee table where unopened bills sat in a pile, their red stamps screaming past due. He grabbed his phone again and opened his banking app. His heart sank at the numbers.
Not much. Barely enough to cover rent for another month. Definitely not enough to stock a kitchen, buy equipment, or secure a place. He exhaled sharply, teeth grinding.
Step one: get the basics. Tools. Ingredients. Anything he could use to cook.
His gaze swept the kitchen. A small frying pan, edges worn thin. A dull knife. A cutting board with grooves carved deep from years of use. That was all. That was what stood between him and "termination."
[Host. Financial limitations will not excuse inefficiency. Resource acquisition is part of the evaluation. Proceed accordingly.]
The system's voice invaded his thoughts again, unbidden. He froze, fists tightening. "You don't miss a chance to remind me, do you?"
But it was right. As much as he hated to admit it, it was right. He had to make do. Every dollar mattered. Every decision carried weight now. One mistake could tip him toward failure—and failure meant… termination.
He swallowed hard, shoving the fear back down. Focus. He had to focus.
He dropped onto the couch, pulled up online shopping apps, and scrolled. Prices mocked him. Some tools were absurdly expensive, some ingredients sold out, some shops closed after the disaster. But there were options. If he prioritized the essentials, maybe he could stretch what little he had.
A proper knife. A reliable pan. Spices, meat, vegetables, bread. Not extravagant, just enough to start.
He muttered under his breath, jotting notes on his phone. "Knife, pan, cutting board… vegetables, rice, bread. Maybe oil. Salt. Pepper. Just enough to test the waters."
The TV droned on In the background. Interviews rolled across the screen—families of victims, survivors of the chaos outside the stadium, witnesses who had seen fire erupt from the stands. The anchor returned with a practiced look of concern.
"Officials urge the public to remain calm. The explosion was a tragic accident, not an act of terrorism. There is no evidence suggesting foul play."
Vincent's jaw clenched. Accident. No survivors. No evidence. They said it with such certainty, such confidence, that for a moment he almost believed it. Almost.
But his memory argued otherwise. The sound, the blast, the precision—it hadn't felt accidental. Still, what could he do with suspicion? Confront the authorities? Announce that he, the sole survivor, believed otherwise?
No. That would only bring questions. Scrutiny. Exposure. The system had warned him—discretion was survival.
He rubbed his temples and went back to his list.
The more he worked, the more his mind sharpened. Trauma still pressed heavy on him, but now it was mixed with a strange clarity, like a spark catching fire.
The sun slipped lower, shadows lengthening across the room. Hours passed as he calculated costs, mapped out routes, weighed options. His fingers moved quickly across the phone screen, drawing connections, making plans.
By the time the last light of day faded, Vincent had compiled a full list of basic ingredients. Affordable, just barely within reach. He would stretch every dollar, barter if he had to, make sacrifices.
He leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. A smile tugged faintly at his lips. Not much. Not perfect. But a start.
The Culinary System had chosen him. And whether it was curse, miracle, or nightmare, he would play along. For now.
Because he wanted to live.
And because somewhere, deep inside, he felt that strange spark again. A whisper of possibility. A whisper that this beginning, absurd as it was, could change everything.
"Alright," he murmured. His voice was low, but there was a new steadiness to it. "Let's see how far a man can go with nothing but a few dollars and a plan."