The refectory screens blink back to the daily menu as if nothing has happened.
But the world has tilted.
Caelan Veston is no longer an anonymous transfer. He is a target, a spectacle, a hashtag already trending on the campus network: #VestBoyVsCrimsonFlash.
Zadie Nightwell's phone is still practically attached to his face. "One last question, Caelan! On a scale of one to ten, how terrified are you to face Nyra Emberveil with a box of literal garbage?"
"A three?" Caelan ventures, which only makes Zadie's grin wider.
Nyra stalks past him, her departure parting the crowd again. She doesn't look at him, but her voice is a low, controlled burn meant only for him.
"Don't be late."
Then she's gone, a ripple of awe and intimidation left in her wake. The show is over. Students begin to break apart, but their whispers follow him, their eyes sticking to his vest and apron like gum on a shoe.
He feels a hundred gazes trying to peel back his skin and figure out what's underneath. He hates it. This is the exact opposite of the quiet, normal life he craved.
Leaving the nutrient paste and Lucien's miraculously empty ramen bowl behind, he turns and makes for the exit. He has a welcome packet somewhere in his bag with a dorm assignment on it.
Emberwood Hall. Room 212.
The walk across campus is its own special kind of hell. Every student he passes either stares openly, whispers behind a hand, or pretends not to see him with an intensity that is somehow worse than staring.
His vest feels heavier. The glitter on his apron seems to mock him.
He had chosen the outfit with purpose. The vest was a symbol of caution, of seeing the unseen dangers. The apron was a joke, a disarming piece of fluff meant to lower expectations to subterranean levels. Together, they were his armor against the pressures of genius. They were supposed to make people leave him alone.
The plan, he thinks with a sigh, has backfired spectacularly.
Emberwood Hall is a sleek, modern building that smells of disinfectant and ambition. He finds the RA's office, a glass-walled cubicle where a girl with sharp, intelligent eyes and hair the precise shade of a summer sunrise is annotating something on a datapad.
Her nameplate reads: Mira Solstice, Floor Proctor.
She looks up, her gaze instantly cataloging his entire disastrous presentation. Her expression is one of polite, clinical disapproval.
"Caelan Veston?" she asks, her voice crisp.
He nods.
"You've had a busy first day," Mira states, not as a compliment. She swipes on her datapad. "Let's see. In the last hour, you've incurred citations for: Clause 7B, Unsanctioned Culinary Displays outside designated arenas. Clause 11C, violation of the student uniform and professional attire mandate. And now, you are officially scheduled for a board-sanctioned duel, for which the preparatory paperwork has not yet been filed."
She looks at him over the top of her datapad, a hint of something—not quite admiration, but academic curiosity—in her eyes. "It's a new record."
"I'm aiming for a quiet school life," he deadpans.
Mira allows herself a small, fleeting smile. "Your approach is… unorthodox. Here." She slides a keycard and a small datapad across the counter. "Room 212. Your roommate is abroad for the semester, so you have the space to yourself. Curfew is at 23:00. Kitchen privileges are schedule-based. A full list of the 147 dorm regulations is pre-loaded on your device."
"Thanks."
"And Mr. Veston?" she calls as he turns to leave.
"Yes?"
"For your duel tomorrow," she says, her analytical gaze sharpening. "The acoustics in Sigma-7 are notoriously tricky. Ambient humidity can affect the structural integrity of spun sugar work, and the downdraft from the ventilation system can prematurely cool a sauce. Take that into account."
Caelan pauses, genuinely surprised. It's the first piece of useful, non-judgmental information he's received all day. "I will. Thank you, Proctor Solstice."
"Mira is fine," she says, already turning back to her notes. "I find chaos interesting from a data perspective."
Room 212 is… clean.
Painfully so. White walls, a grey floor, a single bed with a tightly-made utilitarian blanket, a desk, a closet. It's a blank slate. An empty page. It's exactly what he thought he wanted.
It feels like a prison cell.
Caelan drops his bag and closes the door, leaning against it with a long exhale. Finally. Silence.
He shrugs off the safety vest, folding it with methodical care. He unties the pink cat apron and smooths out the fabric. For a moment, he just holds them in his hands. His ridiculous, wonderful armor.
He hangs them on a hook by the door. Without them, he's just a boy in a plain shirt and jeans. Anonymous again.
He crosses to the desk and powers on the academy datapad Mira gave him. The home screen immediately floods with alerts from the campus network.
A professionally designed graphic dominates the page: a split image of Nyra, surrounded by roaring flames, and a grainy, zoomed-in photo of him, looking baffled in his vest. The headline screams: RECLAMATION: WILL THE CRIMSON FLASH INCINERATE AURUM'S TRASH-FER STUDENT?
Below it, Zadie Nightwell's live stream is archived, already sitting at ten thousand views. A GIF of Lucien Argent weeping into his ramen plays on a loop in the sidebar.
This is out of control.
His quest for a normal life is not just dead; it has been ceremoniously buried, exhumed, and launched into the sun.
He sits on the edge of the sterile bed. A flicker of doubt enters his mind. Maybe Nyra was right. Maybe what he does is a parlor trick. A mockery. He takes sad, forgotten things and makes them beautiful, but he does it with an innate gift he never asked for and doesn't fully understand. His Culinary Domains are second nature, like breathing. He doesn't have to struggle. He doesn't have to fight for it.
Maybe that's why it feels hollow.
But then he remembers the look on Lucien's face. Not the humiliation. The other thing. The brief, shocking moment of warmth that broke through years of arrogant conditioning. He didn't just taste the ramen; he felt the heart of it.
That feeling is real. That is his craft. And it is not a mockery.
He stands up. His purpose solidifies, chasing the doubt away. He will accept this duel. He won't do it for fame or to crush Nyra.
He'll do it for the leftovers. He'll do it to prove that nothing, and no one, is ever truly worthless.
A sharp knock echoes from his door.
Caelan frowns. Mira, coming to cite him for an existential crisis? He walks over and pulls the door open.
Standing in the hallway is a boy he's never seen before. He's a whirlwind of kinetic energy, with bright, curious eyes and a shock of unruly brown hair. He's holding a compact broadcast camera rig in one hand and wearing a headset mic. He practically vibrates with excitement.
"Caelan Veston!" the boy exclaims, his voice a broadcaster's friendly boom. He sticks out his free hand. "Milo Patch! Your number-one fan, as of thirty-seven minutes ago. I run the 'Daily Bite' stream."
Caelan stares at the outstretched hand, bewildered. "I… what?"
"I was watching Zadie's feed," Milo says, talking at a hundred miles an hour. "The emulsification on that broth! From a cold start! Using a vortex you created with, what, sheer willpower? The Savor Density must have been off the charts! We have to break it down. Frame by frame!"
He pushes past Caelan, invading the spartan room and setting up his camera on its tripod with terrifying efficiency.
"Look, you're the story of the century," Milo continues, pointing a finger at Caelan. "The God of Leftover. I came up with that. Good, right? But you have an image problem. Nyra's got the whole elite prodigy brand locked down. We need a counter-narrative."
Caelan just watches him, stunned into silence.
Milo grins, a conspiratorial, brilliant thing. "Nyra has perfection. You have redemption. And everyone loves a redemption story."
He adjusts the lens, aiming it squarely at Caelan.
"Tomorrow, before the duel, they're gonna deliver your ingredients. A big ol' cart of cafeteria trash. And I'm going to be right here, streaming live, as you turn that garbage into gold."