Chương 43: This Is War, Not a Dinner Party

Ethan's return was a heavy bomb, raising enormous ripples in the contestant lounge that had grown a little slack. When he walked in draped in Vane's coat, dragging an exhausted but upright body, everyone stopped talking, and the air seemed to freeze. He paid no one any mind, walked straight to his bunk, and dropped face-first into sleep — without even taking off his shoes. Even, deeply exhausted snoring soon followed.

"My god… is he even human?" Owen said quietly to Chris, looking at Ethan, who slept like the dead.

"Eight straight hours of peeling potatoes, and then he can say 'I could peel another hour'… is this guy made of iron?"

"He's not made of iron." Chris looked at Ethan's hands, swollen red as carrots from the long grip on the knife, and said calmly.

"He just wants to win more than any of us." The line made the mood in the lounge subtle again. Right. Wanting to win. On the stage of Burning Kitchen, who didn't want to win? But "wanting to win" and "winning at any cost" were two different things. By his actions, Ethan had declared to everyone that he belonged to the latter. Sarah looked at Ethan, her eyes full of worry and a thread of fear. She said quietly to Chris, "I feel like… he's a different person since he came back.

Before, he was arrogant, sure, but at least he was still human. Now he's more like a… war machine with no feelings."

"Sarah, you have to understand." Chris turned and looked at her seriously.

"This isn't a summer camp for making friends, and it isn't a dinner party. This is a battlefield. On a battlefield, mercy to your enemy is cruelty to yourself." His voice wasn't loud, but every word carried clearly to every ear in the lounge. Hearing it, Jack lowered his head in thought. Jessica twisted her fingers uneasily. They all realized: the victory of the restaurant takeover, that brief, fireworks-bright teamwork, was over.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. When they stood on the floor again, every one of them — including the teammates who'd once fought side by side — would be each other's enemies. And Chris had, without hiding it, declared it in advance. Sure enough, that afternoon, when all the contestants were summoned to the main kitchen, the new challenge came faster than anyone imagined.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." Vane stood at the counter, refreshed, as if he weren't the one who'd pulled an all-nighter.

"I hope you all rested well. Because from now on, your good days are over." A signature "devil's smile" appeared on his face — the kind that made every contestant's scalp tingle.

"You've proven you can cooperate in a team, that you can work miracles. But I'm more curious about your true level when you're alone.

"So today's challenge is simple." He pointed to the twelve "mystery boxes" on the counter.

"The mystery box challenge!" Every contestant's eyes lit up. The mystery box challenge was the most classic individual round of Burning Kitchen. Before each contestant sat an identical box holding ingredients prepared in advance. Contestants had to use all or some of them, within a set time, to create a dish. It tested not only a chef's creativity but their understanding of ingredients and their ability to improvise on the spot.

The winner of a mystery box challenge usually gained a huge advantage — immunity in the next elimination round, say, or the right to decide what dishes the other contestants had to make.

"Today's mystery box theme is…

'home.'" Vane said slowly. Home? Every contestant froze. A very emotional, very broad theme.

"Each of you comes from a different place, a different upbringing. Somewhere in your taste memory, there's one dish that represents the 'home' in your heart. It might be your mother's, or your grandmother's. It might be plain, even crude. But it's where your dream of cooking began.

"Today, I don't want to see your flashy French techniques, and I don't want your expensive molecular gastronomy. I just want to taste what the road that brought you here tastes like." Vane's words sent many of the contestants into deep thought. Chris was a little surprised too. He'd thought that after a brutal team battle and elimination round, what came next would be a higher-intensity technical contest. He hadn't expected Vane to suddenly play this "warmth" card. But he quickly caught on.

This was no warmth at all. It was a more sophisticated test. He was forcing every contestant to shed the armor of technique they survived on and fight it out with their truest, barest self.

"All right, enough talk." Vane clapped his hands.

"Now, open your boxes!" Twelve contestants reached out at once and lifted the mystery boxes before them. Inside were no lobster, no caviar, no black truffle. Only the most ordinary, most home-style ingredients. A whole chicken, a few ears of corn, some potatoes, onions, carrots, celery, plus flour, eggs, milk, butter. Ingredients so ordinary that any American household's cook could make dozens of different dishes from them. But for exactly that reason, it was harder to shine.

"You have one hour," Vane announced.

"Use these ingredients to make the flavor that best represents your 'home.' Clock starts now!" At the command, every contestant plunged at once into thought and action.