[Devil's Ledger — Week 2]
Quota: 1 / 3 (Due: Sunday 11:59 p.m.)
Risk: Essence Uses Today: 2 / 3
Warning: Inquisitor Attention imminent
By five p.m., Romano's hummed like an engine at redline.
The front window glowed with camera flashes. A line curved down the block, everyone clutching phones.
A mega-influencer had posted a story that morning—Romano's Secret Menu Challenge. Two million followers. One reservation.
Elara handled check-ins, calm but sharp, eyes flicking across faces like she was counting variables.
Jax stayed in the kitchen, jaw tight, knives aligned perfectly.
The Ledger sat open near the spice rack, its thread pulsing slow and red.
He tried not to look at it.
He'd already used essence twice during lunch—tiny drops, just enough to keep consistency.
Three uses in a day invited "attention." He didn't want to learn what that meant.
At 6:45 p.m., the door burst open.
A small entourage swept in: the influencer, two assistants, a makeup artist, a photographer.
She wore gold like armor and smiled like she owned the concept of light.
"Chef Romano!" she called, stepping halfway into the kitchen. "We're live!"
Jax nodded once. "Welcome to the pass."
He didn't shake her hand—hands were for knives.
Her cameraman hovered near the counter. "We want a hero shot, Chef. One dish. Your signature."
"Coming up."
Elara shot him a look—part encouragement, part warning.
He returned it with a tiny nod.
The pan hissed. Garlic met oil. The sound filled the room like applause.
He moved fast—faster than cameras could follow—each gesture exact.
A drop of essence trembled at the vial's lip. He stopped himself.
No third use.
He tasted, adjusted, finished clean.
The dish landed under the lights, gleaming crimson and gold.
The influencer leaned in, inhaled once, then forked a bite.
Her eyes went wide.
"Oh, that's—" She cut herself off and motioned for the camera. "Guys, this flavor is unreal. He's literally rewriting taste."
The comments exploded in real time. Romano saves cuisine.This man's a wizard.Tag Netflix.
Elara signaled the servers to roll the next course.
Everything ran smooth—until the sauce broke.
Halfway through service, a crate of basil arrived late. When he opened it, the leaves were yellowed and salted over.
Sabotage.
Jax didn't need to guess who sent it.
Aurelio.
He dumped the crate and scanned his backups. Only enough basil for three plates.
"Switch to clean menu," Elara whispered through the window.
He hesitated. "They came for the miracle."
"They'll stay for skill."
Her tone brooked no argument.
He pivoted, adjusted, rebuilt the dish without essence—garlic sharper, oil smoother, balance pure.
The air lost its supernatural perfume, but the aroma stayed honest.
When the plates left the pass, his pulse steadied.
At the influencer's table, cameras kept rolling.
She tasted the clean version and froze again—but differently this time.
"Okay," she said quietly. "That's… real."
Her smile softened. "No tricks, right?"
"Only effort," Jax said.
She turned to her followers. "Sometimes, the flavor's not in the magic—it's in the man."
The room erupted in cheers and comments.
For a moment, Romano's felt invincible.
Then the kitchen lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
The Ledger snapped shut with a sound like a heartbeat stopping.
A voice spoke behind him.
"Chef Romano?"
He turned.
A woman stood in the alley doorway, coat buttoned to her throat, hair silver at the edges.
She held no badge, no weapon—just presence.
"May I?" she asked, stepping inside.
Elara caught sight of her and frowned. "We're closed after nine."
"I won't stay that long," the woman said. Her eyes flicked toward the Ledger on the counter. "Interesting décor."
Jax felt the temperature drop.
"Who are you?"
"Call me Lucienne," she said. "I audit contracts."
Kazimir's words echoed in his head: The Inquisitor isn't holy—she regulates balance.
So this was her.
Lucienne ran a finger across a sauce-splattered counter, inspected it, smiled faintly.
"Impressive precision," she said. "And yet you've flavored more than meals."
Jax kept his expression blank. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do," she said softly. "Two drops today. Maybe three. One too many, and you'd have drawn my full report."
She looked at Elara. "He cooks with conviction. Dangerous virtue."
Elara crossed her arms. "We serve food, not philosophy."
Lucienne's smile thinned. "Keep believing that."
She turned back to Jax. "The House is generous to its rising stars, but it dislikes spectacle. Moderate yourself, Chef. Or I'll shutter this kitchen before you can spell repentance."
The word hung heavy as smoke.
She brushed past them and left, the door shutting on its own.
The silence afterward was louder than the applause outside.
Elara broke it first. "Who was that?"
"Health inspector," Jax said automatically.
"Funny," she said. "I didn't see a clipboard."
He started cleaning, fast, mechanical. "She's just another critic with too much pull."
"Then maybe don't give her a reason to pull," Elara said.
He nodded once, not trusting words.
Outside, thunder rumbled even though the forecast was clear.
At closing, he unlocked the Ledger.
The pages glowed faintly, lines shifting like tide.
Quota: 1 / 3. Deadline 24 hours.
Below it, new text wrote itself.
Inquisitor present. Balance audit pending. Proceed with care.
He exhaled. "Too late for that."
A soft knock echoed from the front.
He opened the door and found a delivery box. No label. No courier.
Inside lay a single envelope and a card: Chef Aurelio invites you to a friendly demonstration.
The location: a luxury pop-up downtown.
Tomorrow night.
Same time as the gala.
Jax's pulse kicked.
Two events. Two targets. One deadline.
The service fee from the Substitution Clause still hung over him like a cleaver.
He'd need to close all three accounts in one night.
Elara came back from locking up, saw the invitation, and frowned.
"You're not going," she said.
"I have to."
"You're one man, not a department."
He smiled tiredly. "Tell that to my quota."
She stepped closer. "Jax, whatever this is, it's eating you. And I don't mean the restaurant."
He met her eyes, saw the worry there, the quiet loyalty he didn't deserve.
"If it ends tomorrow," he said, "I want you to remember the food tonight. The clean one."
"That's not the one they'll remember," she said.
"Maybe it should be."
He handed her the keys. "If I'm late tomorrow, open without me."
"I won't."
"Then at least keep the lights on."
She hesitated, then took the keys anyway.
When she left, he sat at the prep table, knife idle in his hands.
He thought about Mara Deacon, still at her desk.
About Councilman Breton polishing his speech for the gala.
About Aurelio pouring bottled sin into pasta for cameras.
Three names.
Three flavors of wickedness.
One night.
The Ledger's thread glowed brighter, faster, heartbeat accelerating.
It flipped itself to a new page.
Week 2: Final Service. Targets Locked. Witness Due.
The words burned, then cooled, leaving faint smoke that smelled of citrus and ash.
Jax closed the book.
The city outside pulsed with neon and hunger.
He stood, tied his apron again, and looked around the empty restaurant.
The air still hummed with traces of applause and fear.
Tomorrow, he would cook truth in front of everyone—press, donors, rivals, devils.
He didn't know who would survive the tasting.
He turned off the lights.
In the dark, the Ledger whispered one last line, barely audible.
Balance demands spectacle. Serve carefully.
Jax didn't answer.
He wiped the counter clean and left the vial on the shelf untouched.
Rain began to fall as he locked the door.
Tomorrow would decide which taste lasted longer—sin or skill.