In the lightless labyrinth of Shanghai's backstreets, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp brick and medicinal herbs, Rod Lom lay coiled at the end of a dead-end alley. A solitary red paper lantern shuddered in the wind, its flickering light barely reaching the rotted wood of the shop's sign.
Yet, over the past few nights, the name of this derelict hovel had been whispered like a dark gospel among Shanghai's elite.
The rumor was this: if you tasted the food of the mysterious chef here, you would see the future—a golden lifeline for a collapsing empire, served steaming on a plate.
The rusted glass door let out a long, metallic groan as it swung open. Feng, an executive director of the CK Group, stepped inside with the twitchy caution of a hunted man. He had buried his gaunt face behind obsidian sunglasses and a heavy trench coat, hiding the shame of a man who had gambled his fortune away on leverage. For the formerly arrogant director, this "supernatural" kitchen was the final straw he had to grasp.
Behind the counter, Ohm, wearing a t-shirt stained with the ghosts of previous services, was calmly polishing a kitchen knife. The warm light caught the blade's edge, sending a predatory glint dancing across the room. He looked up, his eyes reading the visitor with surgical precision.
"Sawatdee krup (HELLO). Have you eaten yet?"
The traditional Thai greeting—warm and disarmingly casual—made Feng flinch. He slowly removed his glasses, revealing bloodshot eyes and dark hollows born from a week without sleep.
"Is it true?" Feng asked, his voice a dry rasp, his trembling hands white-knuckled. "Can you... predict the future through your food?"
Ohm's mouth quirked into a smirk. He gestured to a single stool at the counter, placed with such intent it felt like a trap. "Fortune-telling through data and analysis... you could call it a prophecy if you like. But 'precision analytics you can actually use' sounds a bit more professional, don't you think?" The chef's eyes locked onto the broken man.
"Now, tell me what you need. Don't leave anything out."
Feng sat in silence for a moment before his story spilled out like an open wound. "I... I dumped everything into futures contracts. I used max leverage. If I don't find the cash to cover the margin call in three days, everything I've built will be forcibly liquidated." He bowed his head, sobbing. "I've failed my wife. My children... I just need the cash."
Ohm listened, his gaze sharpening until it was as keen as the blade he had just honed. "Ah, so you've invested yourself into poverty," he said, crossing his arms. "Investment is a risk you must accept. If you don't study and just follow the herd, you're just a moth flying into the furnace." He let out a low, dry chuckle.
"Honestly, I don't care much for helping hollow-brained investors. But, since you're a customer within my daily quota, it would be against my own rules to turn you away."
Feng kept his head low, accepting the stinging truth. Ohm turned and signaled his partner in the kitchen.
"Hey! Phueak! Prepare the 'Playing with Fire' menu. We're serving up a 'High-Velocity Risk' special for our hopeless guest here!"
Phueak nodded solemnly. "You got it, Boss! Out of the way, coming through!" He set to work with frantic energy, while Ohm began a deadly dance with his knife on the wooden block. He pulled a piece of frozen fish—flesh so translucent it looked like glass—and with a single, lightning-fast stroke of his Japanese blade, the meat separated into slices as thin as dragonfly wings. He sprinkled dried flower dust over it, creating a shimmering, celestial glow.
Then came the rhythmic, violent thud of the pestle. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! He smashed black peppercorns and pungent garlic with the intensity of a stock market crash. He pounded red bird's eye chilies into a stone mortar until the crimson skins splattered—a satisfying, bloody mess. He added maple-hibiscus leaves, which bled a thick, tart mucilage, creating a sauce that was viscous, sour, and searingly hot. Finally, he added a splash of water, swirling it into a lethal nectar.
"Speed bought with anxiety, and profits that char the fingertips the moment you touch them," Ohm remarked, plating the final components. "The poor play the lottery, the rich play the stocks—it's all gambling in the end. But greed is a hunger that's hard to starve, isn't it?"