The banner over the convention hall read: "Chef Royale: Battle of the Elite."Spotlights swept over chrome counters, gleaming knives, and cameras on cranes. Thousands watched from the stands, millions more from their couches at home.Backstage, Leo adjusted his plain white apron. Around him, celebrity chefs flaunted custom jackets, gold-plated knives, and ego-heavy entourages."You sure about this, Dad?" Sophie whispered, clutching his sleeve. "Live TV again? After last time… you crashed the internet.""Elena signed the contract," Leo replied calmly. "And the restaurant needs the free advertising. Plus, I heard the pantry has good truffles."Elena winked from the side, headset on—today's "family support," tomorrow's compilation meme.Across the prep tables stood Chef Adrien Noir, tattooed forearms, diamond-studded ear, and a sneer made for slow-motion villain shots. Rumor said he catered for half the city's underground deals.He stepped close, voice low. "So you're the legend? The Grim Reaper of the kitchen."Leo studied him. "Your jacket's missing a button."Adrien's eye twitched. "On this stage, I'm the king. Watch you don't cut yourself on my crown."The host's voice boomed over the speakers. "Tonight! A special theme: 'Last Meal on Earth'! Our chefs will create the one dish they'd serve… if it were the final one."The crowd roared.Sophie sighed. "Subtle. Very subtle.""Chefs," the director yelled, "three… two… one… COOK!"A klaxon blared. Timers flashed to 90:00.Leo moved like water. No showmanship, no screaming—just steady, efficient motions. Flour, eggs, knead. Garlic, butter, pan. His station looked like a calm kitchen, not a battlefield.Adrien, on the other hand, performed. Flames leaped from his pans, knives danced, sauces flew into the air and landed perfectly. The audience screamed with every flambé."Look at Noir!" the commentator shouted. "This is what it means to dominate a kitchen!""And Marchetti?" the co-host asked. "He's… just making pasta?"Leo rolled delicate sheets of dough, layering them with slow-cooked ragù, béchamel, and cheese. No fire, no theatrics. Just quiet precision.The cameras zoomed in."He calls that 'a last meal'?" the co-host scoffed. "That's comfort food."Backstage monitors showed a different story. In mafia bars across the city, men in suits watched with bated breath.Vincenzo Russo pointed at the screen. "You see? That calm. That's death talking."In a federal office, Hale leaned forward. "No bodyguards. No visible weapons. And yet every gang boss is glued to the TV. He doesn't need to call them—they orbit him."Half-time hit. 45 minutes left.The host strutted up to Leo's station. "Chef Marchetti! Word is… certain people would kill for your food. What's your last meal on Earth?"Leo grated cheese, unbothered. "Lasagna."The crowd laughed."Lasagna?" the host repeated. "Not very… dramatic, is it?"Leo layered the pasta. "Done right, it doesn't need drama. Just time. And patience."At home, hashtags exploded again.#ReaperLastMeal
#LasagnaOfDoomSophie's phone buzzed nonstop. "Dad, entire forums think lasagna is your signal to wipe out a family line.""Ridiculous," Leo murmured, lifting the pan into the oven. "Lasagna's for family dinners. Not executions."The camera caught that line perfectly. Editors marked it instantly: trailer material.On the next station, Adrien smirked at the lens. "I'm making foie gras with blood orange reduction. If it's your last meal, it should look like sin."He slid Leo a sideways glance. "Some of us were born for the spotlight, hm?"Leo checked his timer. "Some of us were born to get food out while it's hot."Thirty minutes left. Steam filled the air. Audience murmurs rose.Then, everything went wrong.A sudden shout from the right. One of the assistants collapsed, clutching their throat. Medics rushed in. The cameras cut to wide angles. Producers screamed in headsets."Keep rolling!" someone yelled. "Just don't show the choking!"Leo's eyes flicked over once, judged the distance, then returned to his station. "Wrong stage for peanut allergies," he muttered.Adrien's hands shook. He plated too fast, nearly dropping a pan. His sweat dripped into the sauce."Chef Noir!" the host cried, trying to salvage the mood. "Everything alright?""Fine," Adrien snapped. "Just… focus."The last ten minutes passed in a blur of sizzling, plating, and tension. The fallen assistant was wheeled out, breathing but rattled. The audience murmured, half excited, half uneasy."Chefs! Knives down!" the director shouted.The judges approached.Adrien went first. His plate was art: rich foie gras, glossy orange sauce, microgreens placed with tweezers."A sinful luxury," he declared. "A last indulgence before the dark."They ate. They nodded. They praised the complexity, the boldness."But…" the head judge said slowly, "…it's a bit… heavy. Almost suffocating."Adrien's smile froze. "It's supposed to take your breath away.""In that," the judge said, "it succeeds."Next, they reached Leo's station.A simple white plate. A square of lasagna, edges crisp, middle soft and creamy, sauce just barely spilling over. Nothing fancy. Nothing showy."Lasagna?" the judge asked, skeptical.Leo cut a piece, serving. "A last meal should taste like home, not a menu."They ate.Silence fell.The head judge's eyes closed. Another judge's shoulders slumped. The third… started crying."This tastes like… my grandmother's kitchen," the head judge whispered. "Like Sunday afternoons. Like… the last time my family was together."The others nodded, unable to speak.Somewhere in the city, a warlord watched and clenched his jaw. "…If the Reaper serves you lasagna as your last meal…" He didn't finish the sentence.In Hale's office, the agent's pen stopped mid-note. "They're emotionally compromised," he muttered. "Just from food. If he wanted influence, this is the cleanest method possible."Back onstage, the host struggled for words. "W-Well, that was… unexpected."The crowd, first hesitant, then thunderous, erupted into applause. Not for fire. Not for theatrics.For quiet, devastating comfort.The judges huddled. The cameras zoomed in. The drumroll blasted."In third place," the host called, "Chef Adrien Noir."Adrien's jaw dropped. "Third?!""In second place…"The tension built."…Chef Ricardo Mendez!"Ricardo cheered."And in first place—Winner of Chef Royale, with a simple dish that shattered our expectations—"Spotlights crossed, froze on Leo."Leonard Marchetti!"The hall exploded. Confetti cannons fired. The band kicked in.Leo blinked. "Oh. Good. Free advertising."Adrien lurched toward him, eyes wild. His voice was a harsh whisper. "You think this is a game? That win cost me clients. People will say the Reaper favored you.""I just cooked," Leo replied, genuinely puzzled.Adrien grabbed his arm. "Then why," he hissed, "did a certain boss who hires me eat at your place last week and drop dead yesterday?"Leo frowned. "…Undercooked shellfish?"Adrien yanked his hand away like it burned. "You're poison. Anyone near you dies—reputations, deals… people. I'm not standing near you again."He stalked off, cameras catching every second.Backstage, Sophie leaped into Leo's arms. "You won! Again! Also, the internet thinks the judges are now 'Reaper's chosen taste-testers'."Elena kissed his cheek, smiling too brightly. "My husband, the infamous lasagna war criminal."Leo sighed. "Can we just go home? The oven at the restaurant's better."As they left the stage, past cables and shouting crew, Marco fell in beside them, eyes wide."Boss," he whispered, "Adrien's car… It blew up. Just now. Parking lot."Leo stopped. For the first time in days, his expression actually changed."…While I was still here on stage?"Marco nodded rapidly. "Yeah. They're saying 'no one survives crossing the Reaper.'"Sophie swallowed hard. "Dad… even when you're not near them, people die."Elena squeezed his arm. "Coincidence. We cook. They kill themselves with stress."But when they stepped out into the night, the crowd parted with absolute, reverent fear. Phones lifted, flashes popping.Someone whispered, just loud enough: "The Reaper smiles."Leo didn't. He just adjusted his coat against the wind.For the first time, though, he wondered:How many corpses could pile up before even he started questioning coincidence?