Isaac Smith, 27 years old, was sitting across from Gordon Ramsay on an improvised television set for the interview.
His impeccable suit contrasted with the cables and lights dangling everywhere, as he held a microphone with the confidence of someone who had survived a thousand impossible deadlines.
His desk was neatly organized, his notebook open with strategic notes, and his coffee—miraculously intact—rested to the side.
"Mr. Ramsay, thank you for joining us today," Isaac said, smiling with professional ease. "Your fans say your kitchen can be ruthless, but… what about your patience with journalists?"
Ramsay snorted, crossing his arms, while smoke from a sizzling pan on the adjacent set deepened his scowl even more.
"Patience is a luxury not everyone deserves," he replied with that signature intensity that could intimidate an army. "But you, young man, seem to have a pair of eggs in your head, so I'll grant you that."
Isaac nodded, mentally noting that "diplomatic approach" only a volcano-mode Ramsay could deliver.
He leaned forward slightly, with the elegance of someone who knows how to steer the conversation even when the world's top chef looks ready to erupt.
"Speaking of explosions…" Isaac said, smiling as he pointed to a dish on the table. "What's the worst culinary disaster you've ever witnessed in your career?"
Ramsay let out a roar that made the camera tremble, and without Isaac losing his composure, he launched into the story of a soufflé that had practically tried to commit suicide right in front of him.
Isaac captured every word, jotting them down precisely and dropping in just the right witty remark to keep the interview lively, entertaining, and—above all—impeccable.
As Ramsay spoke, Isaac allowed himself a small gesture: a sip of coffee. And just as the pan's smoke rose too high, a spark jumped toward his desk.
Without missing a beat, Isaac swiftly moved the cup and his laptop aside in one smooth motion, preventing any disaster. His skill wasn't luck—
It was pure coordination from a man always one step ahead, even when everything seemed determined to take him down.
"Impressive," Ramsay said, visibly surprised. "Not many survive this without spilling a single drop of coffee."
Isaac smiled, raising his thumb slightly.
Isaac took advantage of the natural pause after Ramsay's comment to turn toward the camera, maintaining that composure that defined him.
"Chef Ramsay," he said with a sincere smile, "it's been an honor having you with us today. Thank you for sharing not only your stories, but also your time and your passion. I'm sure our viewers will enjoy this interview as much as I did."
Ramsay, who rarely gave away smiles, tilted his head slightly in approval.
"The honor's mine, lad. Good interview. You know how to listen… and that's rarer than a perfect soufflé."
Isaac let out a brief laugh, closed his notebook, and extended his hand naturally. Ramsay shook it firmly, the handshake carrying a respectful energy, as if he recognized another professional in his own field.
The set lights dimmed and the cameraman gave a thumbs-up to signal that the recording was over. Isaac, still immaculate and calm as someone who knew everything had gone perfectly, rose from his seat.
"Thanks again, Chef," he said while putting his notes away. "I hope this won't be the last time we meet in front of a camera."
"Nor the last time you surprise me," Ramsay replied, with that mix of seriousness and dry humor that made him unmistakable.
Isaac picked up his untouched coffee, checked to make sure no cable was tangled under his chair, and, for the first time all day, allowed himself to relax a little.
That night, Isaac returned to his apartment on the fourteenth floor—a modern, orderly place with floor-to-ceiling windows that let the city lights pour in.
As he stepped inside, he set his briefcase on the table, hung up his suit jacket with almost military precision, and poured himself a glass of water as if it were expensive whiskey.
On the wall of his living room, a small digital frame cycled through snapshots of his career: smiles with politicians, famous athletes, influential entrepreneurs.
With a few taps on the screen, he added the newest image—himself, immaculate and self-assured, shaking hands with Gordon Ramsay.
Beneath it, he typed a firm caption: "12th Celebrity Interviewed."
Isaac smiled with quiet satisfaction. It wasn't vanity—it was the certainty that he was building something great, step by step.
He set the frame on the shelf and dropped onto the couch, slipping off his shoes with an easy motion.
"Twelve interviews, twelve doors opening," he murmured to himself as he pulled out his laptop to finish a couple of pending notes.
He powered on his laptop and began checking emails while the soft hum of the city drifted in through the open windows.
In the kitchen, the automatic coffee maker beeped—a programmed reminder for his nightly dose of caffeine.
Isaac rose unhurriedly, poured himself a cup of coffee, and returned to the couch with the mug in one hand and the laptop balanced in the other, as if he'd been born to juggle work.
A slight flicker in the lights caught his attention. Outside, a storm was brewing: distant lightning illuminated the horizon, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Isaac raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
"Perfect. Dramatic atmosphere to end a good day," he murmured with a half-smile.
He settled back down, crossing one leg over the other as he typed swiftly. Rain lashed against the windows and, without warning, a lightning bolt made the building tremble.
The digital frame on the shelf flickered and rebooted, briefly flashing the photo with Gordon Ramsay before going dark.
Isaac barely had time to glance toward the kitchen when he heard the sharp pop of a blown fuse. A flash, an electric crackle, and a thin stream of coffee spilling onto his laptop's cable did the rest.
A high-pitched hum filled the air.
The world went white.
There was no pain, no scream, no clumsiness. Only the sudden impression of having been unplugged.
When Isaac opened his eyes again, he was no longer in his apartment.
Before him stretched an office as vast as it was absurd: filing cabinets disappearing into the clouds, floating desks, and a counter where a man in a suit, wearing a bureaucratic smile, flipped through golden papers.
"Welcome, Isaac Smith," the figure said without looking up. "We won't waste time with heaven or hell. You've got a direct ticket to the world of To Be Hero X."