Chương 2: Something Worse Than Elimination

The lights in the backstage dressing room were a harsh, washed-out white. Chris sat in a folding chair. The mirror in front of him gave back his own face — clear blue shadows beneath his eyes, lips cracked dry, a few flecks of oil from the competition still stuck to his forehead.

"Sign this." A production assistant pushed a document in front of him and tapped a fingernail against the last page.

"Supplemental NDA clause. Confirms you're withdrawing from the competition voluntarily." Chris picked up the pen and signed.

"Your bags are already at the door," the assistant said, collecting the document without lifting her head.

"Taxi stand's to the left when you go out." The door shut. Chris sat alone in the empty dressing room and stared at the stranger in the mirror for a full thirty seconds. Then he took out his phone. The instant the screen lit, his stomach clenched. Forty-seven unread messages. The social-media notifications scrolled down like a waterfall. He opened the first one — the show's official account had already dropped the elimination teaser for the episode.

Thirty seconds of editing, cut with surgical precision around the shot of Vane slapping the fork on the counter and that line: Get out of my kitchen. The comments.

"hahahaha that face is GOLD someone make it a reaction meme."

"This is the level they let on the show? Go make instant ramen, bro."

"Vane's right. Waste of a spot." Chris's thumb stopped on the screen. He scrolled down.

"did somebody make a loop edit yet i need this on repeat."

"@ChrisWhite can't even cook a potato, maybe try a different career." If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"What's a guy eliminated in round one even got to say. Didn't make a single splash." He closed the app. The phone buzzed again. A push notification from his banking app: credit card statement reminder, amount due this cycle $3, 847. 62. Chris shut his eyes. To do this show, he'd quit his job at the IT firm. Three months without income — rent, insurance, minimum credit-card payments all sat against his neck like three dull blades. The whole bet had been on getting far enough in the competition.

Top six, at least, and he'd land a sponsorship deal. Now: eliminated in round one. Nothing. He opened his email. The landlord's message sat at the top, subject line: "Re: Next Month's Rent — Late Fee of 15% Applies Past Due." Chris turned the phone face-down on the table. The mirror counter held a row of other people's cosmetics and energy drinks. None of it was his. Tomorrow this room would belong to the next person eliminated, and he didn't even have the standing to sit in it another ten minutes.

He stood and picked up his backpack. In the corridor he passed a crew member shouldering a camera. The man glanced at him, hesitated, then turned the lens away.

"Hey," the man called after him.

"You need a car?"

"No." Chris pushed open the emergency exit door. The Los Angeles night air poured in, carrying the heat radiating off the parking-lot asphalt. He stood on the steps and looked out at the traffic on the distant freeway, the red taillights running together into a river. The phone went off again. A text this time. From a former coworker: "Hey man, saw the teaser… you okay?" Chris didn't reply. He opened social media. The loop edit already had twenty thousand views.

Someone had set the footage of him getting torn apart to circus music, replaying Vane's you simply don't belong here on a loop. In the comments, someone tagged his account.

"pro tip: put it on your résumé — 'appeared on Burning Kitchen (runtime: one episode).'" Chris shoved the phone back into his pocket. He walked to the edge of the parking lot, crouched down, and laced his hands behind his head. His knuckles still ached — the bruise from the wall was darkening toward purple. It wasn't right. Those three words sat in his chest like a block of iron heated red. Not because of the insults. Not because of the humiliation.

Because he knew, with perfect clarity, that the dish had been forty seconds from flawless. His knife work was clean. His seasoning was clean. His plating was clean. Only at the final gate had his read on the oven temperature gone wrong. If he could do it again. He stood, drew a long breath, and walked toward the taxi stand. In the back seat the driver's radio played a late-night talk show. Chris leaned against the window and watched the streetlamps slide backward one by one.

The phone screen lit up again in his pocket. He didn't look. It was one in the morning when he got back to the apartment. Chris dropped his backpack on the couch, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the tap. When the cold water hit his face, he looked up at himself in the mirror — droplets clinging to his lashes, his eyes shot through with red. And then he heard a sound. Not the water. Not a neighbor's TV. Not any source he could name. A clean electronic chime, ringing directly inside his skull.