By the time Vincent's food truck rolled into the market district, the late afternoon sun had turned everything gold—the kind of gold that made vegetables look like treasure and the sweat on his neck feel like regret.
The place was alive with noise. Vendors shouting over each other, cleavers thudding against wooden blocks, the hiss of oil, and that distinct scent of raw produce mingling with exhaust fumes. Vincent adjusted his apron, grabbed his supply list, and strode in like a man on a mission.
"Alright," he muttered, scanning the stalls. "Chicken, beef, greens, spices—same old, easy run. Today should be simple."
[System Alert: Probability of 'simple' day: 0%.]
He rolled his eyes. "Don't start."
He stopped at his first vendor — Mr. Park, the poultry guy who'd supplied him since he started the foodtruck.
"Afternoon, Mr. Park! Need seventy kilos of chicken—fresh as usual."
The old man shifted awkwardly behind the counter. "Ah, Chef Vincent. I—uh—I'm sorry, but… we're out of stock."
Vincent blinked. "Out of stock? You're a chicken vendor."
"Yes, but someone came earlier and bought out the rest. Offered double price. Couldn't refuse."
Vincent frowned. "Who buys that much chicken on a weekday?"
Mr. Park just shrugged helplessly. "Didn't leave a name. Just said it was for a… private client."
[Unusual market pattern detected.]
Vincent's jaw tightened. "Private client, huh?" He forced a smile. "That's fine. I'll check somewhere else."
His next stop was a produce stall—the only vendor in the district who sold those crisp jade peppers he swore were grown by divine hands.
"Morning, Mrs. Grace!" he called. "Ten baskets of jade peppers—make it quick."
The woman flinched. "Oh, Chef Vincent. I—I just signed a new delivery contract. I can't sell to individuals anymore."
Vincent blinked. "What? You literally texted me last night about a new batch."
"I know, I know!" she wrung her hands. "But the buyer paid upfront for the month. Really sorry."
He stared at her, incredulous. "Let me guess—'private client?'"
Her silence said enough.
Vincent was halfway through the spice aisle when an explosive voice tore through the air.
"I knew it was you, Kwan! You're the one who leaked my buyer list!"
Heads turned immediately. Kwan, the spice vendor, jerked upright behind his stall, hands full of chili powder. "Me? You're insane! Why would I leak anything to you?"
"Not to me, genius — to that mystery client!" shouted the fishmonger, waving a dripping hand like it was a weapon. "Now none of us can sell to Chef Vincent without risking our contracts! You think I don't know who started that rumor about him switching vendors?"
"I never said that!" Kwan snapped, slamming a jar down so hard the lid cracked. "Maybe you should stop blaming others because your fish smell like betrayal!"
"My fish smell fresh!"
"Fresh from the sewer, maybe!"
That did it. The crowd collectively gasped, then surged closer like sharks smelling blood. A few nearby vendors leaned over their counters, whispering furiously.
Vincent stood frozen with his basket of onions, watching as two men nearly vaulted their stalls.
"Oh no," he muttered, setting the basket down. "Here we go."
He slipped between the forming circle, hands raised. "Hey, hey! Let's all just—"
"Stay out of this, Chef!" one yelled, still red-faced. "You're the reason this is happening!"
Vincent blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Ever since you started getting famous with that food truck, people started sniffing around! Someone asked for your supplier list last week!"
"What?" Vincent frowned. "Who?"
The man's mouth clamped shut. "Didn't get a name. Just some fancy-looking guy in a suit. Offered cash. Said he wanted to 'help redistribute demand.' Whatever that means!"
Kwan's eyes widened. "Wait—you talked to him?"
"Only because he came to my stall first!" the fishmonger snapped. "You think I knew what he was planning? He bought out my morning stock before I could even load the truck!"
"You said you didn't sell to him!"
"I didn't! My wife did!"
"Liar!"
A handful of chili powder went airborne. The crowd screamed. Someone sneezed so hard they dropped an entire crate of tomatoes. It exploded across the ground like red confetti.
Vincent coughed, waving away spice dust. "Guys! I just came for poultry and produce, not—"
"Stay out of it, Chef!" Kwan barked. "You're everyone's favorite customer, huh? Maybe you leaked your own supplier info for sympathy!"
Vincent blinked twice. "Why in the world would I sabotage my own shopping trip?"
"Publicity!" Kwan yelled, pointing dramatically. "You chefs love drama! Maybe you're planning to make a video about it — 'Tragic Market Shortage: A Culinary Betrayal!'"
Vincent's jaw dropped. "That's not even—what are you talking about?!"
The fishmonger tried to climb his stall counter. "Oh, now you're just being ridiculous!"
"Ridiculous?!" Kwan's face was tomato-red. "You're the one who tried to sell him pre-frozen fish last month!"
"That was ONE TIME!"
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is getting out of hand."
He turned to leave just as a third vendor — a thin man from the vegetable stalls — slammed his crate onto a counter. "Both of you shut it! You think you're the only ones who got approached? Someone tried to buy my entire stock of green onions this morning — said they'd pay triple!"
That froze everyone.
"Triple?" Kwan repeated, eyes narrowing.
"Yeah," the man said, panting. "Had a clipboard, contracts, all official-looking. Said their 'client' wanted exclusivity deals with top suppliers. Didn't leave a name."
Vincent's heart gave a single, heavy thud.
Clipboard. Contracts. Anonymous client.He didn't need to say it aloud — the System beat him to it.
[Pattern match: 94%. External coordination confirmed.]
"Of course it is," Vincent muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Someone's buying out my suppliers."
Meanwhile, the argument had reignited.
"Oh sure, now everyone's a victim!" Kwan barked. "Convenient that you 'forgot' to mention this earlier!"
"Because I didn't want to be accused of selling you out!"
"Too late for that!"
Vincent groaned, stepping back as the chaos reached a fever pitch — vendors shouting, spices flying, someone's rooster escaping its cage and sprinting through the crowd like a battle flag.
He narrowly dodged a flying cucumber. "Alright, that's it. I'm done."
He grabbed his basket, ducked under a swinging ladle, and strode off toward his truck — leaving behind the shouting, the feathers, and the sound of a tomato splattering dramatically against someone's face.
He was halfway through walking to his truck when a familiar voice called from across the lane.
"Chef Vincent! You're just in time!"
He turned to see James, the beef vendor who'd been with him since his first purchase. The man's apron was stained, his smile broad.
"I saved your usual ninety kilos of beef," James said, patting a large cooler box. "Someone almost bought the whole batch earlier, but I figured you'd show up eventually. You always do."
Vincent blinked, then let out a laugh that carried more relief than humor. "James, you might've just saved my week."
"Wouldn't be the first time," the man said, grinning. "You're my lucky charm. Every time you buy from me, business booms."
Vincent smirked. "Guess I should start charging commission, then."
They both laughed, but as James began weighing the beef, Vincent's gaze darkened slightly. Someone had tried to buy his usual stock too.
And that wasn't coincidence.
[Multiple vendors received simultaneous buyout offers. Monetary trail untraceable. Probability of deliberate obstruction: 94.7%.]
He leaned against the side of the truck, exhaling hard. "Someone's definitely cutting off my supply lines."
[Affirmative.]
Vincent tilted his head back, glaring at the fading sky. "Perfect. Just perfect. I've barely even started my chef era and someone's already playing corporate sabotage."
[Recommendation: Adapt menu. Seek alternative sourcing.]
He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You mean improvise again."
[Affirmative.]
"Of course."
Within an hour, Vincent was at it again—bargaining, substituting, twisting recipes like a man possessed. He replaced the unavailable peppers with smoked paprika, the premium chicken with locally farmed duck, and the rare greens with fresh herbs he'd foraged from a nearby supplier he hadn't visited in years.
It was messy, exhausting, and unplanned. But the smells that rose from his prep table told a different story—rich, bold, intoxicating.
By the time he was done loading his truck, the market lights had flickered on, painting the streets in warm gold and cool blue. The exhaustion on his face barely hid the faint, smug curve of his lips.
[Menu integrity: 98%. Flavor deviation minimal.]
He smirked. "Ha. Take that, whoever-you-are."
[Victory tone detected. Would you like to gloat in writing?]
"Absolutely," Vincent said, smirking as he wiped his hands. "Note to mystery saboteur: You picked the wrong chef."
- - -
Meanwhile in a sleek office overlooking the skyline with polished glass windows and a desk too clean to belong to anyone innocent.
Adrian sat behind it, sleeves rolled up, scrolling through a tablet.Rows of supplier contracts glowed on-screen—each marked 'confirmed.'
Across from him, a man in a dark suit spoke softly."All three poultry distributors accepted the offer. Produce and spice vendors too. The chef's usual sources are all covered."
Adrian's mouth curved faintly, tapping the screen."Good," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Let's see how long he lasts without his perfect ingredients."
The aide hesitated. "Sir, what if he adapts?"
Adrian looked up, eyes sharp as glass. "Then we make the next move sharper."
He swiped the screen shut. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.