Keith Hall had carved this empire from nothing, brick by brick, recipe by recipe.
Thirty-three floors below his glass-walled office, Pinnacle Foods hummed with an energy that felt almost alive.
Clinks of wine glasses, the chatter of culinary elites, and the rhythmic click of camera shutters echoed through the grand atrium. It wasn't just another event. No, today was a culinary milestone for the company.
Chefs with Michelin stars, food critics with god complexes, and influencers in tailored aprons raised their glasses. Outside, holographic billboards wrapped the skyline with bold letters:
"Pinnacle Foods: Feeding Tomorrow."
The world was celebrating a revolution in how food was grown, processed, and consumed. And by the world, that meant everyone in the industry. Everyone except the man who had sparked it all.
Keith stood alone in his executive suite, a solitary figure shone in the reflection of theelaborate floor-to-ceiling windows.
His sleeves were rolled up, his chef's whites stained at the edges. A glass of red wine hung untouched in his hand, catching the golden hues of the city beyond.
To the world, he was a culinary mongul—a food-tech genius who'd reshaped the way supply chains and sustainability intersected. But beneath the tailored image and TV interviews, he was just… empty.
Twelve years. From burning toast in a cramped studio in Harlem to owning the most secure food-tech ecosystem on the planet, Keith had built Pinnacle Foods with blisters, breakdowns, and brilliance.
It was his holy grail.
He hadn't founded it for fame or even fortune. He had done it to fight back against waste, greed, and the corrupt agribusiness cartels that poisoned the planet in the name of profit.
So why did this victory taste like ash?
ZZZZZZT!
Alan's phone buzzed, jolting him from his reverie.
The screen lit up: Jena Carpenter.
"Come downstairs. You need to see this. Now."
His frown somehow deepened—though he was already frowning before.
Jena never texted like that. She was Pinnaccle Foods' brand architect, its public darling, and for the past three years, his partner—in every sense.
But that tone? That command? That was new.
He tossed back the cognac. "What is it now, Jena?" he muttered, like the skyline could answer. Straightening his collar, he left.
The launch event was a feast of spectacle. Spotlights bathed the venue in golden hues. Chefs chopped and plated on synchronized stages, edible art glistening under crystal domes.
Journalists, streamers, and venture capitalists filled the space. Above them, digital screens floated like banners in a futuristic cathedral.
At the center stood Jena Carpenter, radiant in an oxblood gown with a slit sharp enough to kill. Her smile was crafted for press releases, warm enough to disarm, dangerous enough to command.
Standing beside her was Glen Jordan. Keith's co-founder, brother in all but blood, and the only one who had survived the ramen-fueled days of their first ghost kitchen.
He wore a navy suit Keith had bought him. But his stance was tense. Cold. Guarded.
Keith caught his gaze, offered a nod.
Glen didn't nod back.
Odd. Too odd.
Keith's steps faltered.
Something's wrong.
He climbed the steps anyway. The crowd roared. Keith smiled—a perfect photo-op grin that he'd worn for a thousand interviews.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jena began, her voice velvet over steel. "Tonight marks the dawn of a new era in consumable substances. Not just a product, but a revolution."
The crowd hushed. Keith's eyes darted to Glen. Then back to Jena.
"Evolution"?
What did she mean by that?
What is this gut feeling? Why does this feel like the edge of a knife?
"Effective immediately," Jena continued, "Pinnacle Foods will enter a strategic acquisition with ViGro Biotech."
Keith's heart stopped.
ViGro? The same corporation that tried to patent genetically-modified staple crops? That destroyed sustainable farms for profit?
He hadn't agreed to this.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Jena continued smoothly.
"And with this transition, our board has approved a realignment of leadership."
The giant screens behind her came to life.
Keith Hall's face appeared next to bold letters:
KEITH HALL — HEAD CHEF, FOUNDER & CEO: TERMINATED.
The room turned to ice.
Keith's world tilted—yet all he could do was… laugh.
It was sharp, strange, like the pop of oil in a hot pan. Every camera in the room turned to capture the absurdity.
Jena and Glen stared. People murmured, phones rose, livestreams multiplied.
They really thought they could erase him. Just like that?
Glen stepped to the mic. "Keith, this isn't personal. It's what's best for Pinnacle Foods. For the future."
Keith stepped closer. The room held its breath.
"Not personal? You stab me with a knife in the back on the most important night of our company's life and call it not personal?"
He turned to Jena, eyes ablaze. "You manipulated the board, didn't you? Sweet-talked them with investor charts and smiles?"
Jena didn't flinch. "You were unpredictable, Keith. Brilliance doesn't excuse instability. You refused to scale. You refused automation. The industry moved, and you stood still."
Keith's laugh turned bitter. "I refused to serve poison. I said no to GMO monopolies. I said no to ViGro when they tried to buy us two years ago. And you call that unstable?"
Glen raised a document. "We have records of unauthorized expenses, late filings, private projects. You left us no choice."
"You mean my independent food chain initiative? The one meant to make food free in famine zones?" Keith sneered. "You hated it because it couldn't be monetized."
He turned to the crowd, voice raised. "You all know me. Twelve years. No outside capital. No shortcuts. We built Pinnacle Foods from a shared kitchen and a Craigslist fridge. And now… now they sell it off like a family recipe to fast food executives."
For a second, the silence made him king again.
Then Jena stepped forward.
"You refused to adapt, Keith. You wanted to "cook every dish yourself". You're not part of this future."
Keith's eyes burned.
"Says the woman who slept with five board members to season her position."
Gasps. Phones up. Cameras flashing wildly.
Security guards appeared at the edge of the stage.
Keith's gaze found Glen again.
"You wanted power, not purpose. And you forgot, Glen—I built the goddamn kitchen you're standing on."
Glen, shaken by Keith's eerie calmness, could only whisper, "Keith, please leave. Or security will make you."
Keith gave a dry smile. "No need."
He walked down the stairs, applause forgotten. The man who built a food empire from a basement… walked away.
---
Rain slicked the streets as Keith drove, headlights cutting through the downpour.
He didn't speak. Not to the AI assistant in his car. Not to himself.
His hand gripped a small, stainless USB drive—a prototype for a decentralized food-tracking platform. One that made supply chains transparent, uncorrupted. One ViGro couldn't touch.
This… was the real revolution and no one was going to have asides him, even it meant taking it to the grave with him.
The cabin lights flickered. The car jolted.
"Warning," the cars AI chimed. "Brake system is unresponsive."
"Ngh—shit!"
He stomped the pedal.
Nothing.
They weren't just taking his company. They wanted him dead.
The car slammed into a railing spinning, spiraling—until it crashed down the side of the bridge.
Metal screamed. Glass exploded. Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Keith dangled upside down, chest crushed by the seatbelt, blood leaking from his brow.
The rain pattered through the broken windshield. The world had gone still.
He coughed. A laugh broke free. Ugly. Painful.
"So this is how it ends…" he rasped. "Not a blaze of glory. Just... betrayal."
His fingers closed around the USB.
"I wanted to feed the world... not fatten shareholders."
His vision dimmed. "...Maybe in another life..."
With the remaining strenght left in him he broke the USB in half and tossed the shattered pieces to different directions, before-
Darkness.
---
Tti-tiring.
[BUSINESS GOD SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
[WELCOME, HOST> KEITH HALL. WOULD YOU LIKE TO REWRITE YOUR STORY?]