Chương 1: Get Out of My Kitchen

"Time's up! Knives down!" Gareth Vane's voice split the soundstage like a dull blade. He was the foul-mouthed British chef whose tantrums had turned the show into a ratings machine, and he didn't need volume to land a hit. Twelve burners died at once, blue flames shrinking back into their cast-iron rings, and the air held nothing but the scorched tail-end of browned butter and the ragged breathing of the contestants. Chris White scattered the last pinch of minced thyme across his plate.

His fingers trembled, just slightly. His potato pavé stood at the center of the white porcelain — a golden crust, clean strata, a perfect arc of sauce drawn beneath it. It looked fine. But he knew the truth. That decision three minutes ago — the extra forty seconds in the oven — was lodged in his throat like a splinter.

"Chris White." Vane came to a stop in front of his station, blue eyes sweeping the plate, his face giving away nothing.

"Yes, Chef." Chris straightened. Vane took up a knife and fork and cut into the dead center of the pavé. In the instant the blade pressed down, Chris saw it: along the edge of the third potato layer ran a hairline of pale pink, the texture just slightly loose. Overcooked.

"Tell me," Vane said, lifting the fork into the light, his voice low as the muffled thunder before a storm.

"Do you think this dish deserves this stage?" Chris opened his mouth.

"Chef, I'll admit the heat —""Shut up." Vane slapped the fork down on the counter. The bright crack of metal against marble made the woman at the next station flinch.

"I asked whether it's good enough. I didn't ask you where you went wrong." Vane took a step forward, a vein ticking at his temple.

"Do you have any idea how many people out there dream of standing where you're standing? Twenty-seven thousand applications. Twelve spots. And you repay that chance with a plate of overcooked potato?" Chris's nails dug into his palms.

"This is not some corner diner," Vane said, and his voice climbed until the spit nearly reached Chris's face.

"This is Burning Kitchen! You can't manage the most basic — the most basic heat control, and you think you've earned the right to stand here?" The camera's red light was burning. At the edge of his vision Chris caught camera three pushing in, framing a tight close-up on his face. He didn't lower his head.

"Chef, if you'd give me one more —""One more what? One more chance to cook a potato into baby food?" Vane stepped back, planted his hands on his hips, and dragged the corner of his mouth into a sneer.

"I've seen nervous cooks. I've seen careless cooks. But you — you simply don't belong here." This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. The whole soundstage went quiet enough to hear the current humming in the overhead lamps. Eleven contestants stood behind their stations, some staring down at their own plates, some trading covert glances. Marco — the Italian-American from Boston — let the corner of his mouth lift in something almost too faint to see.

Vane turned and walked back toward the judges' table, throwing a single backward wave without looking. The gesture was light. The words were not.

"Get out of my kitchen." A high ringing filled Chris's ears. He watched the director make a hand signal behind the monitors, and two cameras zoomed in together. He watched Vane drop back into his chair and lift a glass of water without so much as a glance over his shoulder. He watched a crew member come in from the side, a black apron in hand — the sign that an eliminated contestant returned.

"Chris," the crew member murmured.

"Come with me, please." He untied the apron. His fingers paused for two seconds on the strings. He had tied this apron in front of his bathroom mirror more than fifty times, drilled it until he could land a perfect knot with his eyes shut. Now he folded it, set it on the prep counter, and turned toward the exit hall. Behind him Vane's voice was already moving on to the next contestant.

"Sarah. Bring me your plate." That was it. No second chance. No overtime round. No room to maneuver at all. Chris walked the length of the corridor and pushed through the fire door to the backstage. The moment it shut behind him, the lights and the voices and the smell of smoke and oil were all sealed off in some other world. At the far end of the hall, the exit sign glowed green. His hands were still shaking. Not from nerves — from fury. Forty seconds. Forty seconds of difference.

He could feel that the dish had stood one thin pane of glass away from perfect — but in Gareth Vane's book, one pane of glass and a thousand miles were the same distance. Chris drove his fist into the corridor wall. Pain spread from his knuckles up into his wrist. He slid down the wall and sat, the back of his head against the cold concrete. The fluorescent tube overhead flickered twice and gave off a thin hum. The phone in his pocket buzzed once. He didn't look at it.

But the light from its screen bled through his jeans, blinking on and off, like some kind of countdown.