[Devil's Ledger — Week 1]
Quota: 0 / 1 (Due: Sunday 11:59 p.m.)
Perk: Palate +1 (active 48 h from signing)
Signing Bonus: Vial of Starter Essence (one dish)
Warning: Overuse attracts Attention
Morning light spilled through the front windows of Romano's, cutting across the empty dining room like blades.
Jax Romano stood behind the pass, arms folded, watching the clock.
The ledger rested beside the register, its black cover still warm to the touch. Every few minutes, he swore he could hear pages shift inside, as though the book were breathing.
He hadn't opened it since last night.
He didn't have to. The knowledge it promised was already in his hands.
He reached for a pan, grabbed garlic, olive oil, tomatoes. His motions came faster, cleaner, precise in a way that made no sense.
Every sound in the kitchen came sharpened—the sizzle, the knife against the board, the pulse of the exhaust fan.
He didn't need to taste to know the balance was perfect.
By ten-thirty, two walk-ins appeared: a young couple looking lost.
They asked if the place was open.
"Soft open," Jax said. "You're my test subjects."
The woman laughed; the man shrugged. "We'll risk it."
He seated them near the window. The chairs still smelled of new varnish.
Back in the kitchen, Jax wiped his palms on a towel and stared at the small glass vial lying on the counter.
The liquid inside shimmered faint red, like wine held up to a candle. The label read simply Starter Essence.
He remembered Kazimir's warning: one dish.
He hesitated, then uncorked it. The scent was faint but intoxicating—sweet smoke, citrus, a memory he couldn't place.
He poured a single drop into the tomato-basil reduction. The color deepened instantly. The smell filled the room.
When he plated the pasta and topped it with a curl of parmesan, the air itself seemed to lean closer.
The couple's first bite stopped them mid-conversation.
The woman's eyes widened. She let out a small, involuntary sound, half surprise, half awe.
The man blinked, then smiled like he'd been kissed.
"This is… insane," he said.
Jax hid a grin behind his towel.
They finished everything, down to the last streak of sauce.
The man took a photo of the empty plate. "You on Instagram?"
"Not yet," Jax said.
"Fix that," the woman replied. "People should know about this."
At noon, the door opened again. A kid with a small camera stepped in—maybe nineteen, maybe twenty.
"Hey," the kid said, scanning the room. "I run a food channel—micro stuff. You mind if I record?"
Jax hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. Just don't tag me until I say."
The kid filmed while Jax worked.
Garlic, oil, tomatoes—again, the same dish. But now the smell hit harder.
The sauce thickened like velvet; the pasta shimmered in the light.
The kid whispered to the camera, voice trembling. "I can't describe this smell. It's—holy—"
When he tasted it, his reaction wasn't performance. It was surrender.
He set the fork down, laughing helplessly. "What did you put in this?"
"Patience," Jax said.
The kid nodded reverently, already editing clips on his phone.
By three, the post was up.
A short reel: a flash of sauce, a close-up of Jax's hands, the kid's stunned face.
Caption: I just found NYC's next miracle chef. Romano's, East 15th. Go.
Jax watched it from the back office, unsure whether to laugh or panic.
He refreshed once. Twenty views.
Then a hundred.
Then a thousand.
By evening, the comments multiplied—Where is this?, I need that recipe, This looks unreal.
He didn't reply to any of them.
Kazimir appeared around closing, as casually as if he'd stepped out of the pantry.
He wore the same gray suit, no trace of sweat despite the heat.
"I see the city has tasted your debut," he said.
Jax wiped the counter without looking up. "I didn't invite you."
"The Ledger comes with service visits."
Kazimir glanced at the phone on the counter, where notifications still blinked. "Fame is fast. Quotas faster."
Jax turned to face him. "What happens now?"
"The bonus is spent. You've proven the concept. Time to earn the next serving."
He opened the ledger. The red stitching pulsed like a heartbeat.
One name glowed faintly across the page.
Vincenzo Rullo.
Jax swallowed. "Landlord. I saw that name yesterday."
"Your instincts remain sharp," Kazimir said. "Rullo owns this building, among others. He extracts more than rent."
Jax's jaw tightened. "You're saying he's wicked."
"I'm saying the world would taste better without him."
Jax stared at the name until the letters blurred.
He thought of the eviction notices, the fines, the inspector's voice reading from a clipboard.
He'd been fighting to stay afloat while people like Rullo profited off others' desperation.
The logic came uncomfortably easy.
Still, the thought of "cornering" someone made his stomach twist.
"I don't kill," he said again.
Kazimir smiled faintly. "You won't need to. Consequences have a way of finding their hosts. You simply… set the table."
The ledger closed itself.
Kazimir stepped back into the shadows, voice soft. "You have seven days. Waste none."
Then he was gone.
Dinner service brought five more walk-ins.
A group of students. A middle-aged couple who'd seen the video. A delivery driver on his break.
Word had spread faster than any marketing plan Jax could afford.
He cooked until his shoulders burned.
Every plate came out flawless. Every diner left glowing.
When the last table cleared, Jax leaned against the counter, exhausted but high on adrenaline.
He tasted a spoonful of sauce from the final pan.
The same perfection. No essence added.
For a moment, he believed he could do this without the devil's help.
Then he glanced at the ledger. The cover twitched, a faint rustle like a turning page.
He opened it.
The words on the first page pulsed brighter: Quota 0 / 1.
Beneath, a faint shimmer formed the outline of a clock counting down—hours, minutes, seconds.
Seven days.
He closed it quickly, heartbeat thudding.
Outside, the rain began—light, steady, rhythmic.
He stood by the window, watching it blur the neon sign.
The restaurant glowed in the reflection, warm and alive. For the first time in months, it looked like a place worth saving.
He imagined Elara seeing it, smiling the way she used to.
He'd call her tomorrow, maybe. Ask her back.
Tonight he would rest.
He turned off the lights, locked the door, and stepped into the drizzle.
The street smelled of wet asphalt and tomatoes.
As he walked, a delivery truck rolled past. On its side was an ad for a real-estate company.
The photo of the smiling landlord froze him mid-stride.
Vincenzo Rullo.
Same face as the ledger.
Jax stood there until the truck disappeared around the corner.
When he looked back at Romano's, the lights behind the windows flickered once—red for half a second, then normal again.
He wasn't sure if he'd imagined it.
Back home, he tried to sleep, but his palate wouldn't let him.
He could still taste the sauce. Layers of sweetness, acid, smoke—an aftertaste that wouldn't fade.
He brushed his teeth twice. It stayed.
He realized then that the flavor wasn't on his tongue anymore. It was in his mind.
Addiction, Kazimir had called it the hardest kind.
Jax rolled over and stared at the ceiling until dawn crept in.
The ledger sat on the nightstand, faintly pulsing with each second lost.
The city outside stirred. Cars. Sirens. A distant shout.
And somewhere among those sounds, Jax thought he heard a whisper.
It came from the direction of the ledger.
Chef Romano… the clock has started.