The rain hit the windshield like a thousand tiny needles.
Max Carter tightened his grip on the scooter's handlebars, blinking through the blurry water-streaked visor of his helmet. The cold soaked through his jacket, biting his skin, but he didn't slow down. Time was money—and money was survival.
He pulled up in front of a narrow apartment building, climbed the creaky stairs to the third floor, and knocked twice. A young man opened the door, took the bag of food with barely a glance, and slammed it shut without a word.
No tip.
Max let out a slow breath, jaw tight, then turned to head back down. One delivery closer to the end of another long shift.
Once, he had owned five restaurants across the state. Once, his name had been featured in *Culinary Weekly* as one of the "Top Ten Rising Stars in American Cuisine." Once, he had worn tailored suits and flown out to food expos in LA and Chicago.
Now he wore a cheap delivery jacket with a broken zipper, earning just enough to cover rent and ramen.
They'd ruined him.
The competition had always been fierce, but what his rivals did had gone beyond business. They'd sabotaged suppliers, spread rumors, bribed inspectors—until the health department shut down his flagship branch. The rest fell like dominoes.
His name, once respected, had become a joke in the culinary world. Lawsuits drained his savings. Friends vanished. Even his fiancée had walked away.
That had been two years ago.
He was still standing—but barely.
---
Back in his apartment, Max tossed his helmet onto the couch and kicked off his soaked shoes. The one-room space was cramped and smelled faintly of damp carpet and old takeout. He slumped into the chair by the tiny kitchenette, wiped the rain from his face, and stared at his phone.
Thirty-two deliveries.
One hundred twenty-eight dollars.
Nine dollars in tips.
"Big night," he muttered with a hollow chuckle.
He opened his fridge. Two eggs. Half a loaf of white bread. Mustard.
Dinner was looking... uninspired.
He was cracking the eggs into a pan when a sudden pulse of light filled the room—soft, golden, and silent.
Max froze.
It wasn't coming from the ceiling. Or the stove.
It was floating—right in front of him.
A translucent screen hovered in the air, maybe two feet wide, covered in strange golden text.
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Max blinked. He dropped the spatula. "What the hell...?"
He took a step back, heart pounding. The screen moved with him—staying perfectly in view, centered like it belonged there.
A new set of lines appeared.
[1] Full legal ownership of an unused restaurant property
[2] All required permits and business licenses registered
[3] Three starter breakfast recipes unlocked:
– Pancakes (American style)
– Scrambled eggs with herbs
– Bacon and cheese sandwich
[4] Divine Chef System Access: Level 1
– Current Points: 0
– Point Generation: $1 = 1 Point (calculated at 12:00 AM daily)
– Roulette Spin – Level 1 Cost: 100 Points
Max's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
This wasn't a dream.
He reached out and tried to touch the screen. His fingers passed through it—but the text remained perfectly clear.
"Divine Chef System?" he muttered. "Like… a cooking game? This some kinda VR? Am I hallucinating?"
Another line appeared:
---
The screen slowly faded into nothing, leaving behind only the silence of the room—and a single notification now floating in the corner of his vision like a heads-up display:
\[Property Acquired: The Silver Spoon – 228 Baker Street]
\[Status: Vacant – Ready for activation]
He stood frozen for nearly a minute, then looked down at his trembling hands.
"...Okay. Fine. If this is a dream, I'm going with it."
---
The next morning, Max stood in front of a small two-story building tucked between a laundromat and a dusty bookstore. The faded sign above the door read: *The Silver Spoon*.
It looked forgotten. The windows were clouded with dust. The door creaked on its hinges.
But when he stepped inside, something shifted.
The interior was intact. Worn, yes—but not destroyed. The counter still stood. Tables were scattered and stacked. The air smelled of old oil and time.
And there, taped neatly to the wall behind the counter, was a license. Freshly printed.
> **City of Clearwater – Food Service License**
> **Registered Owner: Max Carter**
> **Health Rating: Pass**
He touched the paper like it might vanish if he blinked.
"This is... real."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of cleaning supplies and sweat. Max mopped, scrubbed, tested appliances, and hauled trash bags to the alley out back. He found an old radio in the kitchen, turned on some music, and cleaned like a man possessed.
For the first time in years, he felt focused.
Alive.
---
As the sun dipped below the skyline, Max stood in the middle of the empty dining room. His arms ached. His back throbbed. But the floor was clean. The counters sparkled. The kitchen smelled like lemon disinfectant and possibility.
He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.
He was alone. No customers. No staff. No plan.
But he had a building.
He had recipes.
He had a system.
And, for the first time in a long, long time…
He had hope.
He looked up at the floating display as it softly flickered back to life.
\
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Max smiled faintly. "Guess I better make some money."
The display faded again, leaving nothing but empty air.
Tomorrow, he'd open the door.
Tomorrow, he'd cook.
One meal at a time.
---