The sky was turning dark again.
The tavern lights flickered on, casting a warm glow inside. Outside, the neon signs of the city hummed softly in the background.
On the counter sat a plate of succulent chicken thigh yakitori, perfectly grilled. Each bite was tender, while the scallions—crispy with a subtle kick—added bursts of flavor that played off the meat beautifully.
Like beef, chicken in Japan was also divided into various parts, each with its own charm.
Beyond the common cuts like breast, thighs, and liver, more obscure parts such as chicken comb, gizzard, and the "sleeve"—the wing joint closest to the breast—were meticulously segmented. For yakitori, every part had a story, a purpose, and a flavor of its own.
"Boss… I'm a third-year now," Rindō said softly, her chopsticks pausing mid-air.
"In another year, I'll graduate. And when that happens… I want to work here."
She looked up, cheeks slightly flushed—not from the sake, but from something closer to pride… and nervousness.
"Can I be your kitchen assistant?"
For someone as confident and uninhibited as Rindō Kobayashi, it was rare to see her so cautious. But right now, she looked like a student asking for a dream job, not the second seat of the Elite Ten.
Zane blinked, surprised.
"You… want to work at this tavern?"
He paused, then realized—she was serious.
Cooking wasn't just about recipes. It was talent, knowledge, experience, heart, and the x-factor—something no textbook could teach.
And Rindō?
She had all five.
In the original timeline, her rise to the second seat of the Elite Ten didn't come from luck. It came from hard-earned respect. Her skills were vast and versatile—wild, creative, but disciplined when they needed to be.
Of course, second seat didn't necessarily mean second-best.
Joichiro Yukihira had been the second seat under Gin Dōjima, and look how that turned out.
Zane knew this: if he was ever going to expand the tavern, if he truly wanted to create a culinary movement that could shake the industry to its core, then he couldn't do it alone.
And Rindō?
She'd be an incredible ally.
Still, he had to be honest.
"Rindō," he said gently, "you still have another year, right? Asking now feels… a little early."
He gave her a half-smile. "Besides, with your impatience, you might end up rushing here before graduation just to interview."
She froze.
"…So, that's a no?"
Her tone dropped, just a bit.
Zane caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.
For someone with endless job offers waiting for her post-graduation—from elite restaurants, culinary schools, luxury hotels—why this place?
Why his humble tavern?
He wasn't sure. But seeing the sincerity in her expression, he felt something warm swell in his chest.
He nodded.
"No."
"That's not what I meant."
"I'm saying—I'll keep a spot open for you. Whether it's one year or two… The door will always be open, and the kitchen will always have room for you."
Rindō's eyes lit up.
"Really? You mean it?"
"Then let's pinky promise!"
She grinned, extending her little finger like a kid on a playground.
"…Are you seriously doing the pinky thing?"
Zane sighed. "Do you think I'm that untrustworthy?"
Still, he hooked his pinky with hers.
A silent contract.
Unspoken, but ironclad.
It was midnight when the tavern finally closed.
Rindō paid her bill and walked out slowly, her steps lingering.
There were still so many things she wanted to say to him.
But she could wait.
There would be more nights.
More dinners.
More time.
As he watched her walk away into the night, Zane exhaled quietly, feeling a strange mix of hope and pressure in his chest.
Imagining students like Rindō, Erina, Megumi, Yuuki, and Ryoko working in this place together… It sounded like a dream.
But maybe—with enough effort—it didn't have to stay a dream.
With that thought, he turned around and started cleaning up.
Just then—
Bang!
The tavern doors burst open with a loud clatter.
"Chef! Quick—please help!"
Zane spun around.
Anne was standing there, panic in her eyes, supporting someone—
Mana Nakiri.
She looked like she could collapse at any moment. Her face was flushed deep red, her skin glistening with cold sweat. Her breathing was shallow. Her body trembled.
Zane rushed over.
Mana's dazed eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, something flickered—hope, desperation, craving…
And then—she nearly fell.
Zane caught her just in time, stabilizing her in his arms.
Her skin was burning.
"Damn, she's got a serious fever…"
"What happened?" he asked, looking at Anne. "Didn't she eat the Comet Fried Rice? She was recovering, wasn't she?"
"I… I don't know," Anne stammered. "Maybe her anorexia relapsed? Maybe her body's overwhelmed?"
Mana groaned, gripping her head. It felt like boulders were knocking around in her skull. Her heart raced, her thoughts spiraled—images of Zane, his food, his presence.
Her craving for his dishes surged again, stronger than ever.
"No…"
"I really… can't take it…"
"Zane… please…"
Her legs gave out. She clutched his sleeve, her eyes glassy, unfocused—but brimming with emotion.
"Please… give me…"
Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
"Please… hurry and give me your food…"