Vincent stared at the system's floating screen one last time before closing it. The words glowed in his mind like iron brands:
[Mission: Acquire a restaurant.]
[Time Limit: 29 days]
[Failure Penalty: Termination.]
His jaw tightened. He didn't have a restaurant. He didn't even have enough savings to rent one. But he did have a truck—a dented, stubborn machine he had nursed through breakdowns and repairs for years. A beast with no pride, but with wheels and a shell.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
"Food truck first," he muttered to himself. "Restaurant later."
The words sounded ridiculous in the silence of his apartment. A half-mad plan born out of desperation. Yet the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. A food truck required less money upfront, no permanent lease, no mountains of paperwork. Mobile, adaptable, discreet—everything he needed right now.
And if he played it right, it could bring him the capital he needed to eventually open a proper restaurant.
Decision made, Vincent emptied what little remained in his account. Each purchase felt like another cut to his already bleeding wallet: second-hand cooking equipment, a portable grill, a gas burner, battered pots and pans, utensils, a foldable counter.
He winced at the balance flashing back at him—practically nothing left. His chest tightened. One wrong step now and he'd be destitute. But there was no turning back.
Hours later, he stood in his garage, staring at the back of the truck. The vehicle had once carried furniture, then groceries, then nothing but dust and stubbornness. But now? Now it bore the skeleton of a kitchen.
Vincent crossed his arms, imagining the meals he could build here. He pictured steam curling from pots, the hiss of oil on a pan, the scent of garlic and spices flooding the air.
"It'll work," he whispered.
But he wasn't done. Not even close.
The next step was ingredients.
- - -
The open-air market was already alive when Vincent arrived the next morning. A sea of stalls stretched across the square, canvas awnings flapping in the wind. Vendors barked prices over one another, a chorus of urgency. Spices perfumed the air—cumin, paprika, coriander—mingling with the sharp tang of raw fish and the earthy sweetness of fresh fruit.
He approached the vegetable stalls first. Rows of tomatoes gleamed in the sun, their skins taut and red. He picked one up, rolling it in his palm, feeling its weight.
"How much for a kilo?" Vincent asked.
The vendor, an older woman with eyes sharp as razors, quoted a price. Too high.
Vincent shook his head. "Too much. I'll give you half."
Her lips curled into a smile, amused at his audacity. A brief exchange followed, words darting back and forth like blades in a duel. Finally, she relented. Vincent walked away with a heavy bag of tomatoes, onions, potatoes, peppers, and garlic.
Not the desperation of a broke man—but the precision of someone who knew exactly what was fair.
At the butcher's stall, Vincent examined the cuts laid out on ice. His skills didn't come from professional kitchens—he was no chef—but from childhood memories of standing beside his mother as she cooked. He remembered her lessons clearly: how fresh meat should glisten, how the flesh should spring back when pressed, how the wrong shade could mean it was past its best. Those small teachings, tucked away for years, guided his eyes now.
"That slab," he said, pointing to a cut of beef.
The butcher frowned. "That one's more expensive."
"I'll pay it," Vincent replied flatly.
The butcher grumbled as he wrapped the meat. "You've got a chef's eyes."
Vincent smirked faintly. "Something like that."
He picked up chicken thighs, beef, and bones for stock. By the time he finished, his bags weighed heavy in his arms, and his pockets were dangerously light. But his truck would be filled with life.
The scent of fresh herbs and raw meat followed him as he loaded everything inside.
Back home, there was no time to rest.
The truck was still a mess—dust caked the counters, grease clung to corners, rust crept along the metal. Vincent rolled up his sleeves and began scrubbing.
His hands moved with mechanical precision. Each sweep of the rag was a stroke of control, each scrape of rust an act of defiance against despair. Sweat slicked his brow, grime blackened his fingers, but slowly, the chaos bent into order.
Hours blurred. The gas burner clicked into place. The grill settled on its stand. Utensils lined up neatly. Ingredients stacked in rows, vibrant against the steel.
Bit by bit, the truck stopped being a junk heap. It became a kitchen.
A battlefield.
When he finally leaned back, panting, the truck gleamed under the faint light of his garage. The battered vehicle now carried the promise of tomorrow.
Vincent ran a hand along the counter, his reflection faint in the polished metal.
"This will do," he whispered.
But the silence around him only deepened. He could hear the faint murmur of the TV inside his apartment, still broadcasting endless coverage of the stadium tragedy. No survivors. Accidental fire.
He clenched his fists. Lies. He didn't want to believe it, but the pit in his stomach told him otherwise. Something about that explosion had been deliberate.
He shoved the thought away. He couldn't afford paranoia. Not now. Not when survival demanded focus.
That night, hunger gnawed at him. The bags of ingredients called from the counter, and despite his exhaustion, Vincent fired up the burner.
Flames roared to life, licking at the pan. He tossed in onions and garlic, the sizzle sharp and satisfying. Oil snapped, fragrance rising instantly into the confined air of the truck. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
It was the first real scent of hope since the blast.
He worked quickly, chopping tomatoes, adding spices, browning meat. His movements were surprisingly fluid, precise. It was almost as if it came from memory.
"Hey system." He called out. "Something's weird. Why am I suddenly chopping vegetables like a pro?"
[You have been equipped with basic culinary skills, Host.]
"You call this basic? Then what's pro like?"
[As you advance and unlock more rewards you will eventually unlock pro skills, Host]
"Nice." He said, smiling and looking at his hands in awe. "So all I need to do is complete more missions and I'll eventually unlock pro level skill?"
[Correct, Host.]
For a moment, he forgot about the system, the mission, the threat of termination. Now he saw the potential of rewards, of completing missions and unlocking benefits.
He plated the dish—a simple beef stir-fry with rice—then sat on the truck's back step, eating straight from the pan. It tasted divine and it was real. Warm. Alive.
Tears pricked his eyes. He wiped them away quickly.
"I can cook." He laughed. "I can really cook."
[Host. Testing recipes is efficient. Continue. Creativity will be rewarded.]
Vincent froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He scowled at the empty air. "Can't even let me eat in peace, huh?"
But even as he cursed it, his heart beat faster. The system wasn't wrong. He'd need recipes that stood out, flavors that carved through the noise of competition. He couldn't just survive—he had to excel.
He took another bite, chewing slowly. Ideas flickered in his mind—dishes that were affordable yet unforgettable.
Yes. He could do this.
By the time the clock neared midnight, Vincent collapsed onto his bed. Muscles ached, fingers stung, eyelids felt heavy as lead. But when he closed his eyes, he saw the gleam of steel counters, the glow of flames, the vision of customers lining up outside his truck.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Tomorrow, I start."
The darkness settled around him, gentle and quiet. His breathing slowed.
And then, as sleep threatened to take him, the cold voice of the system echoed one last time:
[Correction. Host begins now. Time is not tomorrow's luxury. A new directive will be issued.]
Vincent's eyes snapped open.
"What?"
The floating screen returned, glowing against the dark.
[Sub-Mission: First Sale]
[Time Limit: 24 hours]
[Reward: System Access Expansion]
[Failure Penalty: Termination.]
Vincent sat upright, heart hammering.
His first customer. By tomorrow night.
No rest. No second chances.
The real battle had already begun.