That afternoon, Vincent stood in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection like a man preparing for espionage rather than lunch.
A thick, uneven fake mustache clung precariously to his upper lip. A cheap fedora sat crooked on his head. His normally sharp eyebrows had been drawn longer—so long they could have been registered as weapons—and the foundation he'd slapped on made him look like a wax figure melting under stage lights.
He squinted at himself. "…Perfect."
He tipped his hat, practiced a mysterious smirk, and whispered to his reflection, "No way I'm letting anyone recognize me. Imagine the headlines: 'National Culinary Master Spotted Stalking Customers in Local Restaurants.'"
The system pinged softly.
[Disguise integrity: 12%.]
[Probability of public embarrassment: 99.8%.]
Vincent adjusted his mustache with exaggerated dignity. "Confidence, my dear toaster. That's the key to all great plans."
[Correction: Key to all great failures.]
"Shut up."
The first restaurant was a cozy ramen bar, packed with the post-lunch crowd. Vincent strolled in like a spy entering enemy territory—slowly, dramatically, as if theme music were playing somewhere in the background.
He picked a corner seat, ordered a drink, and immediately began scrutinizing everyone.
There was a man with suspiciously bright green eyes. A woman who blinked too slowly. A kid who ate three bowls in five minutes. Vincent's brain worked overtime.
Green eyes — Probably telepathic?
Slow blinker — Nephic reflex lag?
Fast eater — enhanced metabolism?
Guy with two spoons? …absolutely suspicious.
Vincent leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "Yup. Definitely not normal."
[Correction: Host is staring at an ordinary accountant.]
"That's what they want you to think."
The waiter coughed behind him. "Sir, you've been staring at that family for ten minutes. Do you… know them?"
Vincent froze mid-suspicion, turned slowly, and smiled with all the calm of a man whose sanity had left the building. "Research," he said solemnly. "I'm… conducting flavor research."
The waiter blinked. "For what?"
Vincent raised his cup, voice low and serious. "For truth."
Five minutes later, he was politely escorted out.
The second location was a sleek fusion restaurant downtown. Vincent tried to look casual—until he spotted a woman with silvery hair sipping something unnaturally blue.
His pulse kicked. That's it. That's gotta be one.
He slid into the booth across from her with the subtlety of a thunderstorm. "Excuse me," he said with what he thought was charm. "Are you, by any chance, not entirely human?"
The woman blinked once, twice—then called for security.
Two minutes later, Vincent was less politely escorted out.
By the time he reached the third restaurant—a humble little diner by the corner—he was sweating through his disguise. The mustache kept trying to peel off, sticking to his upper lip like it was clinging for dear life. His hat was askew. His drawn eyebrows had started to smudge.
Still, he pushed through the door with heroic determination.
A waitress gave him a cheerful smile. "Table for one?"
Vincent nodded gravely. "Yes, please."
He sat down, ordered coffee, and began observing.
Every person who chewed too quietly was suspicious. Every person who didn't finish their meal was clearly supernatural.
He was halfway through making notes on a napkin when the manager approached, looking exasperated.
"Sir, this is the fourth time you've been caught staring at customers and mumbling about 'entities.' Please leave before we call the police."
Vincent stood, adjusted his mustache with dignity, and muttered, "You'll regret mocking me when they sprout wings mid-dessert."
[Host credibility: 0%.]
By the time Vincent trudged home, the sky had bled into shades of orange and violet — the kind of cinematic sunset that mocked your misery just by existing.
He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and immediately collapsed onto the couch like a corpse clocking out.
"I don't get it," he muttered into a cushion. "Not a single trace of supernatural energy. Either they're avoiding me, or—"
He stopped. Slowly lifted his head.
Across the room, the mirror on the wall glinted back at him… revealing a man with a crooked fake mustache, patchy concealer, and eyebrows that looked like they'd been drawn by a sleep-deprived toddler.
"…Oh no."
He touched his face, horror dawning. "I forgot to take this off, didn't I?"
[Affirmative. Facial disguise remained active for six hours. Local pedestrians recorded footage. Hashtag '#SuspiciousDiner' currently trending.]
Vincent bolted upright. "WHAT?!"
[Engagement rate: 87%. Comments include theories such as 'performance art,' 'street magician,' and 'midlife crisis.']
He groaned, faceplanting into the couch again. "I hate everything."
[Emotional stability: declining.]
Vincent reached blindly for the fake mustache, tore it off, and threw it across the room. "Shut. Up."
- - -
The next day, Vincent the last set of daily tasks and exhaled, waiting for the familiar hum of his system panel. It didn't disappoint.
The air shimmered faintly, and glowing blue text blinked into existence.
[Daily Task Set: Complete.]
[Rewards Distribution Initiated.]
[• +10 SEU granted.]
[→ SEU Balance: 10.]
[• Restaurant Blueprint Progress: +30%.]
[→ Unlock: Main Dining Hall Layout (flooring, seating grid).]
[→ Cost to Finalize: 45 SEU.]
[→ Effect: Just empty floor space with marked seat placements.]
[• Random Drop Acquired → +2 Recovery Speed.]
"I'm glad this one costs lower," Vincent muttered, rubbing his face, "but I've still got, what, fifteen more days of daily tasks before I can even think about finalizing this stage? And this is only thirty percent? How long is it gonna take me to hit a hundred — next century?"
[Estimated completion time: 47 days at current productivity.]
He blinked. "That… was a rhetorical question, System."
[Clarification detected. Answer provided.]
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I was kidding."
[System lacks humor module. Installing irony comprehension patch… failed.]
Vincent flopped back onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. For a brief, dangerous moment, he considered sleeping another twelve hours just to spite the System. But his precious customer loyalty pulled him upright.
"Fine," he sighed, "Lets get this over with."
After a quick shower, he tied his apron, ready to head to his food truck—then froze mid-motion.
A spark flickered behind his eyes.
"Wait… what if—"
He turned slowly, a grin creeping onto his face. "I've been overthinking this supernatural mission. If I can't find them, maybe I can make them reveal themselves."
[Clarify.]
"Think about it! Nephics live among humans, right? They look normal, but they're not. All I have to do is stare hard enough to tell who's who."
[Detection method unreliable. Eye contact will not reveal energy anomalies.]
"Correction," Vincent said smugly, jabbing a finger in the air, "you can't detect them. But I—" he smirked, "—I have instincts. Culinary instincts. I'll know when I see one."
[Host delusion levels rising.]
He waved off the warning. "It's genius. Subtle. Psychological warfare. I'll call it—" he struck a dramatic pose—"The Stare-Down Technique."
[Name recorded. Probability of success: 0%. Probability of social humiliation: 98%.]
"Oh, you'll eat your words when I find one. Watch me, System. Today, I'm not just serving customers—" he adjusted his collar—"I'm hunting anomalies."
[Statement flagged as ominous.]
By the time he rolled into the park, his food truck gleamed under the noon sun. The moment the window hatch flipped open, the line formed like a magnet had pulled them in.
"Chef Vincent's here!" someone shouted.
Within minutes, the air buzzed with chatter, sizzling oil, and the sharp rhythm of knives against the cutting board.
He began cooking, multitasking with the speed and grace of a machine. The smell alone could've started a riot.
Then came phase two of his master plan.
The Stare-Down Technique.
He straightened, narrowed his eyes, and fixed his gaze on the first customer in line—a young woman waiting for her order.
He stared.
And stared.
And stared.
The woman blinked rapidly, shifting from confused to flustered. "Uh… d-do I have something on my face?"
Vincent, dead serious: "No. Just checking… something."
Her cheeks turned pink. "O-oh."
Behind her, her friends giggled.
He moved on to the next customer, repeating the process. Long, focused stares. Furrowed brows. Occasional squints, like he was trying to peer into their soul.
To him, it was scientific analysis. To everyone else—it looked like flirting. Intense, mysterious flirting.
By his tenth customer, whispers had started. By his twentieth, phones were out.
"He stared right at me—like, straight into my eyes."
"Are you sure it's not part of his customer service style?"
"I think he's in love with his regulars!"
"Oh my god, he smiled a little. I swear he did.
#TheStaringChef started trending within the hour.
People flooded the park just to experience "the look."
Vincent, entirely oblivious, was thinking, None of these readings are adding up. How can there be zero Nephic energy signatures?
He leaned forward to examine a customer's pupils more closely. She nearly dropped her wallet.
[Alert: social media activity increasing.]
"What?" he muttered under his breath while flipping a pan.
[#TheStaringChef is trending in three local networks.]
"Wait, what did you just say?"
[Hashtag spreading. Public interpretation: Host flirts via prolonged eye contact. Engagement rate: 112%. Notable comments: 'He's so mysterious,' 'Those eyes could cook me instead.']
Vincent froze mid-stir. "…You're kidding."
[Negative. Host currently categorized as 'enigmatic romantic chef.']
He groaned, pressing his hand to his face. "I was trying to find a Nephic, not a date!"
[Goal achievement probability: 0%. However, Host popularity increased by 65%. Public Support stat increased by +50]
[Public Support: 132]
[SEU bonus: +10]
[SEU balance: 20]
"That's not what I—ugh, forget it." He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, "At least I got something good from this."
[Clarify: Host refers to increased popularity?]
Vincent glared at the translucent panel. "No, I meant the bonus SEU. Not the romantic fan theories, thank you very much."
When the last dish was served and the crowd finally dispersed (half of them still blushing), Vincent slumped against the truck window, defeated.
"I can't believe that actually backfired."
[Correction: it front-fired. Social impact substantial.]
"Not helping," he muttered, dragging himself into the driver's seat.
The sunset painted the streets gold as he drove toward the market, too tired to feel triumphant.
"Day six," he mumbled. "Still no Nephic. Just hungry humans and weird hashtags."
[On the bright side, Host now has a bigger fanbase.]
"Yeah, well, tell that to my dignity."
He parked by the market, head falling back against the seat. "Tomorrow," he sighed, "no more genius ideas."
[Prediction: Host will have another 'genius idea' within 8 hours.]
Vincent groaned. "Shut up."