Chương 12: I'm Back

The black town car pulled up at the back door of the soundstage. Chris pushed the door open and stepped out. The Los Angeles morning sun was a little harsh; he squinted and looked up at the familiar building. A week ago, he'd fled out of here in disgrace. Today, he was back. A production assistant holding a run-of-show sheet came over, looked him up and down, an undisguised flicker of contempt in her eyes.

"Chris White? Come with me. Dressing room's that way. Move it, the other contestants are all here." Her tone was the kind you'd use on a delivery guy. Chris said nothing, only nodded and fell in behind her. Walking the familiar corridor, he could feel the curious looks from the crew. They whispered, pointed.

"Hey, look, that's the guy who got chewed out to tears in round one."

"How's he back? They really brought the punchline back on the show?"

"Probably signed some special contract. Here to manufacture drama." The voices weren't loud, but they carried clearly enough to reach Chris's ears. A week ago, he might have flushed red, clenched his fists. Now there wasn't a ripple in him. He was just an engineer here to execute a task. This background noise couldn't interfere with his core program. He walked into the big backstage lounge, where three people already sat. Fellow revival-round contestants, all eliminated in earlier rounds.

The three, mid-conversation, stopped the moment Chris came in. One of them, a blonde woman — Sarah, the one who'd been at the station beside his in round one — wore a sympathetic look. A big Black man, Mike, gave a contemptuous snort and turned his head away. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it And the third, a sharp-looking Asian man, watched Chris with open interest, like he was appraising a piece of merchandise.

"Well, look who it is. Our 'Potato Guy.'" Mike's voice came out sour.

"What, didn't get roasted hard enough last time? Came back for seconds?" Chris didn't engage. He walked straight to an empty seat, opened the knife roll he'd brought, and began checking his tools one by one. His chef's knife — edge as keen as ever. His peeler — smooth in the hand. His probe thermometer — battery full. His total, oblivious focus made Mike feel like he'd thrown a punch into a pillow, and it irritated him.

"Hey, I'm talking to you. You mute?" Chris finally raised his head and gave him a look. Calm — calm as deep water, no emotion in it at all.

"My knives are fine. Are yours?" he asked mildly. Mike froze. He hadn't expected this from Chris. He'd been counting on anger, or embarrassment — anything but this cold counter-question.

"You—" Mike's words stuck.

"All right, Mike, ease off." Sarah stepped in to smooth it.

"We're all here to compete." Just then the lounge door swung open, and Marco walked in. Still the same star posturing — expensive bespoke chef's whites, hair combed to a fault. He swept the room, and when his eyes landed on Chris, his brow lifted, his face showing clear surprise and a thread of mockery.

"Wow." He let out the exclamation theatrically, then walked slowly up to Chris.

"I really didn't expect to see you here. I figured you'd gone home and opened a little shop that sells nothing but roast potatoes." A ripple of suppressed laughter went around. Chris didn't stand. He stayed seated, unhurried, wiping his knife with a flannel cloth. He lifted his eyes and looked at Marco, towering over him.

"If I do, I'll definitely invite you to come taste it," he said, his voice low but unusually clear.

"On the house." The smile on Marco's face stiffened. He felt it. The man in front of him was nothing like the flailing rookie of a week ago. That bone-deep calm gave him, of all things, a faint sense of being… pressed. Impossible, Marco told himself. It's an act. A washout eliminated in round one — what could change about him? He's just bluffing.

"Sure," Marco said, recovering his smile, clapping Chris on the shoulder.

"I'll wait, then. Though I'm guessing I won't get the chance, because today you're getting kicked out again." With that he turned away and struck up a warm conversation with Mike and the others, as if Chris didn't exist. Chris didn't spare him another glance. He slid the wiped-clean knives back into the roll one by one, his movements precise and steady, like a surgeon about to step up to the table. He knew the psychological war had begun the moment he walked into this soundstage.

These people took him for a punchline, a stepping stone, a clown the production team had arranged for ratings. They all believed he was still the glass man who shattered at a touch. Good. Let them believe it. Out on the floor, in a little while, they'd learn exactly what kind of monster they'd provoked.

"All contestants, prepare to enter!" The assistant shouted from the doorway. Chris stood, picked up his knife roll, and walked out of the lounge last. When he stepped onto the familiar soundstage again, every light, every lens, every gaze snapped onto him at once. His face blank, step by step, he walked toward the station that had once been his. Station one.