Chapter 1
Hot oil popped from the flat-top, searing the inside of Wei Wei’s wrist. She didn’t flinch. She just kept dragging the pumice stone across the seasoned steel, grinding away the carbonized grease of a fourteen-hour shift.
Above her, the exhaust fan rattled with an asthmatic wheeze, failing to pull the heavy scent of burnt garlic and old fat out of the cramped truck. Through the grease-streaked window, the city was a blur of neon and rain.
Deng Kai sat on a cracked vinyl cooler near the door, thumbing through a stack of crumpled bills. He didn’t look up. The only sound from him was the wet smack of his lips and the sharp snap of paper.
“Two hundred and forty bucks,” he said. His voice was flat, carrying the bored cruelty of a man who owned your time. “Pathetic for a Friday. If you actually smiled at the customers instead of looking like you’re at a funeral, we might make rent.”
Wei Wei turned off the gas. The sudden absence of the burner’s roar left a ringing quiet in the small metal box, broken only by the mechanical hum of the mini-fridge. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving dark streaks on the white cotton.
“I’m cooking, Deng Kai. Not auditioning for a hospitality seminar.”
He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them sallow. He tapped a yellowed, grease-stained envelope resting on the stainless steel prep table. “Watch your mouth. You’ve got nine years left on that paper. Clause 14. You break it, you owe me fifty grand. You can’t afford to breathe wrong in this truck, let alone talk back to me.”
Wei Wei stared at the envelope. Four years she’d been trapped in it, signed when she was twenty and desperate enough to keep her grandmother’s medical bills afloat. Now, at twenty-four, it was just a chain wrapped around her throat.
“Clause 14 applies if I quit,” she said, keeping her voice level, forcing her hands to stop trembling. “It says nothing about what happens if you lose.”
Deng Kai stopped counting. The bills froze under his thumb. He leaned back, the vinyl creaking in protest. “Lose what?”
“Tomorrow’s livestream. You versus me. One dish each. The viewers vote.” Wei Wei locked her knees to keep her stance steady. “If I win, you tear up the contract. I walk. If you win, I sign the addendum. Two more years, unpaid.”
He laughed—a short, harsh bark that bounced off the metal walls. “You’re out of your mind. I built this business. I bought the truck. I secure the permits.”
“You built it on my grandmother’s recipes,” she shot back, refusing to step back. “You just add MSG and charge double. Tomorrow, everyone watching that stream is going to see exactly where the talent comes from.”
Deng Kai stood up, using his height to crowd her in the narrow space between the fryer and the sink. He smelled of stale smoke and cheap beer. He searched her face for a flinch, looking for the crack in her armor.
He didn’t find it.
“Fine,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Eight o’clock. I’ll set up the ring light. But if you lose, Wei Wei, I won’t just keep the contract. I’ll make sure every restaurant manager in this city knows you’re a liability. You’ll never work in a kitchen again. You’ll be scrubbing toilets for the rest of your life.”
“If I lose, I deserve it,” she said, holding his gaze. “But I won’t.”
He grabbed his jacket and shoved the till into his duffel bag. “Don’t be late,” he muttered, pushing past her.
The heavy metal door slammed shut, rattling the thin walls of the truck. Wei Wei was alone. She leaned against the cold steel of the sink and let out a long, shaky breath, watching the last of the grease dissolve under the hot water.
The walk home was a blur of damp pavement and blurred streetlights. The rain had reduced to a fine mist, coating the city in a slick, reflective sheen. Wei Wei walked with her head down, her mind racing through flavor profiles and techniques. By the time she reached her apartment building, her shoulders ached with a dull, familiar throb.
She didn’t bother pressing the button for the elevator. The digital display had been dark for three months anyway. She pushed open the heavy fire door and took the stairs. By the second floor, her calves were burning. By the fourth, her lungs felt tight and scraped raw. She fumbled with her keys, her fingers stiff from the cold, before finally tumbling into her apartment.
Inside, the space was quiet and cramped. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, casting long, barred shadows across the linoleum floor. She dropped her bag on the small kitchen table and pulled the yellowed envelope from her apron pocket.
Her employment contract.
She walked over to the stove and struck a match. The sulfur flared, bright and harsh in the dim room, smelling of chemicals and sudden heat. She held the flame to the corner of the thick paper. The fire caught immediately, licking the edge, turning the cheap paper black and curling it inward.
She watched it burn for three seconds. Then, she blew it out.
Dropping the smoking paper into the metal sink, she smoothed the remaining pages. Burning it in secret didn’t erase the debt. Deng Kai would just claim she breached the contract and demand the fifty thousand dollars. She didn’t have the money, and she knew the local managers he drank with; they would side with him to keep the peace. If she destroyed it in the dark, he would destroy her in the light.
If she was going to break the contract, she had to do it where everyone could see it. She had to break him on his own stage, in front of his own audience. She needed a public execution of his authority, not a secret arson.
She tucked the envelope back into her pocket and turned to the mini-fridge. She pulled out a carton of eggs, setting them on the counter to take off the chill.
Room temperature.
She cracked one into a small glass bowl, watching the yolk break, bright and clean against the pale white. She picked up a fork, the metal cool against her fingers, and began to whisk. The rhythmic scraping of the tines against the glass was the only sound in the apartment.
She watched the mixture pale and thicken. Tomorrow at eight o’clock, she wasn’t just cooking for a livestream. She was cooking for her life.
She whisked faster, the motion becoming automatic, muscle memory taking over. The city outside was finally going to sleep, but Wei Wei was just waking up.
