A/N: Yippee!!! Ahh so many familiar names in the comment section ;v; I hope you enjoyed Leroy's little backstory last week. The next two chapters are written completely from scratch, so it's honestly been really exciting writing them, since I reworked nearly all of the competition's initial stages. The new characters as well! I can't wait to introduce them. 

This is an 8K word chapter, so take your time with it! Enjoy.

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[Leroy]

I spent the weekend doing three things: playing cards with Annie in her ward, suiting up for a fire when a crew member called in sick, and making full use of their rusty-ass kitchen when they weren't around. One more. Answering questions like: "Why didn't you tell us bagel boy got game? The guy's a professional at cue."

"You think I knew?" I snorted, sliding Zales a bowl of soup. Instantly, my brain pulled up a moving image of him in a one-knee stance, bent over, chest low, the chain of his glasses brushing the surface of the table as he took his shot. Might be the seventh time I was reviewing this clip. So... five. Five things I spent the weekend doing. Fair enough.

"What, he never told you?" She was not buying my story. "That's crazy. Devika said if she had a stance like that, I'd be ordering a pool table the next day. And some costumes. If you're—woah. Woah." She was frowning and smiling at the same time, sitting at the counter in the commons just minutes away from the end of her shift, staring down at the pick-me-up I'd made. "That's wild. The soup's cold."

"You're Spanish and you've never had Gazpacho..."

She flipped me off. "Your boyfriend didn't tell you he's got a great ass at the pool table."

"..." I had nothing. "I don't need him to tell me that." The timer on my watch beeped and I killed it before turning off the heat. "Also, we're not... we kinda... argued."

"Yo man the fuck up and apologize." "Why d'you assume it's my fault?" "Because it is even if it isn't, duh? Probie, come on. Back me up here." "Sorry ma'am, I uh... just came downstairs 'cuz something smelled really good..." "Okay fine. Cox, feed him something. Listen Probie, it's an emergency: we might lose bagel boy 'cuz they fought over, uh. They fought. Yeah." "WHAT!" "Pipe down kids, it's five in the morning..." "Capt, we might lose bagel boy." "WHAT!" "But, but we only just met at the pub a few days ago! Sir. When did this happen?"

I poured red into one pan and white into the other; placed a bowl in front of Vance, and poured both soups into the dish at the same time. Slowly, from opposite ends. They did not mix.

"Two weeks ago."

Zales paused. "Two weeks ago...? So then the whole time you guys hung out together with us; that was you guys, not being a thing?"

"Just... unresolved tension," I dealt my best hand at English and slid a spoon across the table, nodding at the soup. "Try it."

"Woah," Probie had the same look of awe on his senior engineer's face the moment he saw the dish. "What is it, sir? You put them in the same bowl but for some reason they're not... y'know. Blending."

"White soup first, then the red," I wiped the counter down and rinsed the dishcloth. "Then, try it together. Tell the others on shift. Gotta run—they scheduled a photoshoot at eight."

"When's the next time you're seeing him?" "... Might be today." "Make up and make out, aight!" "Please sir, the bagels are at stake..." "Fire alarm if you need us."

I gave them the finger over my shoulder. The look in my eyes wasn't hard to read; and from the way I was going around in circles about the situation, they knew this wasn't something straightforward and easy to resolve.

This was different. 'Sorry' wasn't going to cut it.

They had these lists with codes and number tags on them that would tell us the time and location to show up at for every shoot, and his initials were right at the top. So I knew he was going to be there for the prelims. Just, didn't know if I was going to see him off-camera.

Even then, the call sheet said it all: there were sixty of us, and three of them. Three judges tasting sixty dishes back-to-back sounded like a nightmare, so there had to be a catch. Some way to weed us out right from the get-go.

I thought about it on my way to The Shard; thought harder as I parked my bike, got my pass, and waited for the elevator. Floor number fifty-two. But... this elevator was special and only had two buttons: one and thirty-five. A doorman showed me in, and then two others with the same pass joined the ride.

The doors slid shut and it was quiet.

They weren't tourists staying in the five-star hotel. Otherwise, they wouldn't have needed a visitor's pass to get on. There was movement in the reflection of the glass, and I could tell from the rustling of clothes that they were doing something facing each other.

Signing.

Cool. But also none of my business, so I minded my own, staring at the rising number on the little screen. Thinking about Chicken. The logistics of getting him on several flights around the world versus leaving him with the crew at station twelve. Nothing wrong with the second option but if anything, I preferred company.

"Nice ink. My brother says."

I looked up. The younger of the two was a girl; dyed hair, blue eyes, college shirt. She was the one who spoke first. Standing beside her leaning against the handrail was a guy with a buzzcut and tats on both arms. Sleeves made out of... birds.

Instantly, I knew: he was a chef.

"Thanks. His, too." I nodded at the most visible one from the angle I was facing. A sparrow.

The girl and her brother started signing again. This was when I noticed a device around his ear. There was something about the guy that spelled chef in uppercase, which isn't surprising these days since people in kitchens here in London come from all corners of the world, all walks of life. It was more than just a gut feeling. Dunno. Couldn't put a finger on it.

"... Same floor?" I turned the back of my pass and tapped it.

"Yeah! Fifty-two. The cooking show...?" The girl held up her own pass and interpreted at the same time. "There's like, some photoshoot thing going on. Not me, by the way. Just him. Also, aren't you—" She pointed with her index and right away, her brother's hand swooped in like a motherfucking hawk and caught it stiff.

Cue classic sibling staredown. Somewhere in the distance, tumbleweed. Eagles (?) in the sky. I think.

Finally, the sister caved and signed something while rolling her eyes. The brother returned it. Then they both turned their attention back on me.

"Same show I guess," I kinda just said, knowing we weren't supposed to be doing names or personal details according to the contract. People don't usually approach me out of nowhere here in the UK. I don't exactly give the impression of warmth and comfort; it's the opposite, actually. "You like birds?"

The doors slid open on the thirty-fifth floor and the three of us got out together. I figured we'd continue the convo in the next elevator 'cuz right away, reception had us escorted to the hotel's private lift lobby and some guy even ran ahead just as the doors were about to close to hold it open for us. Crazy service.

But then things got even crazier.

Standing inside that exact lift was the one and only other person in the world I knew who liked birds enough to buy collectible postcards of them at the V&A museum. He also liked stationery. And colors like chocolate and cream; which I think is the color of the knit turtleneck he was wearing. In case you don't already know, I like him a lot. Crazy, I know.

"My apologies sir. Thank you for holding," the doorman said to him while we stared at each other. Or rather, I stared at him because somehow, my mind kicked into emergency information retention mode and started to record details of his casual fit. "Ladies and gentlemen? This way please."

He snapped out of it first, politely greeting the three of us a good morning as we filed into the back of the lift and the doors slid shut. All four of us were headed to the same floor.

I was standing directly behind him, so it didn't take me very long to notice that his hair wasn't as neatly done up like it usually was—brushed and gathered in a low ponytail. He'd missed a section. Both looks, I dig. Also... is that fur on his back? I almost reached out to remove it for him on instinct.

"Yeah, my brother's a fan of birds," the sister went on as soon as the elevator started climbing. "Back in high school, he wanted to be a bird-something. Zookeeper, but for birds..." She signed, looking a tad confused while the chef guy with tats held up a hand and appeared to spell it out for her in sign. "A-V-I-A-N-K-E-E-P-E-R. Yeah, that."

I shrugged. "Ten times better than being a chef." Surprisingly, they both laughed. Part of me genuinely wondered if I'd gotten better at conversation. Realistically, the answer's no.

"What's yours?" The girl pointed at the ink on my arm. "They look like flames."

Her brother waved her guess aside. Signed something that made her roll her eyes. They liked doing that, the two of them. "He thinks they're waves." And then all of a sudden, they were back at it; rapid signs and facial expressions like they were physically going at each other's throats.

I didn't exactly know what to say but by this point, the snowflake in his corner of the elevator had caught on and was fully tuned-in. It was easy to tell. His head sort of raised a little; like the ears of a deer perking at the sound of rustling grass, sensing company it favored.

So he was curious.

"They're both." I said to the duo who looked like they were never going to let the other have the last laugh. "There's no right answer; it is whatever you think it is. Just... something I came up with after quitting the kitchen."

The girl's mouth fell right open. "You quit years ago and can still cook like that?"

I didn't think she was being rude or anything 'cuz technically the secret ingredient challenge was an open invitation to anyone on the streets and Andre's restaurant did everything they could to capitalize on free publicity, but her brother bonked her on the head with two fingers and she apologized. He signed something while looking at me and she paused, glanced at the quiet corner of the elevator where winter brewed, then back at me.

"So... what do you do?"

I knew he was listening. It wasn't against the rules to talk about our jobs or anything, but we might be cutting it close, so I chose not to elaborate. Otherwise, someone was going to have a mini dilemma in his head.

"Firefighter."

The sign she turned to her brother with was easy to remember. I made a mental note to tell the crew in case it came in handy.

"Woah. We just did a documentary on fire brigades in Finland! Oh, uh, I study film in college. Second year. But I'm taking some time off 'cuz my brother wanted to hire an interpreter for the show but I was like, no fucking way I'm missing out on a production this big, so I begged him to bring me along. Hey!" He'd messed with his sister's hair as soon as she said this, but one look and anyone would be able to tell: they'd spent their entire lives together. Not a second apart.

The way she'd put it across, too, made it sound like she just knew he was going to get the role. Like passing the prelims was a given—a walk in the park for a chef like her brother.

"See you around," she added as the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open on the fifty-second floor. Both her and her brother raised a hand in the exact same manner and made a left.

Meanwhile, I had an arm out against the elevator door waiting for the last passenger inside to step out while he appeared to insist on button-holding so that I could get out first. This was the real competition I signed up for.

I gave him a look and he sighed, pushing up his glasses and stepping out first.

"Thank you. You're... here for the photoshoot, I presume?" He gestured at the sign meant for guests. "It's that way. Right by the sky pool."

"You're not coming?" "They had ours taken yesterday by Tower Bridge, along with other guest appearances. And... well. It was interesting, to say the least. Will Carter was there." "They're missing out. You look great in a pool." "I believe there are several factually erroneous assumptions in both your statements. Please correct them in your spare time while I... while I um. I'm the other way." He finished by motioning at another glass door across the lobby. "Also, this is a cooking competition, Leroy. You will not be having your photos taken in a pool."

"... Wasted opportunity." I pretended to lament, starting toward the direction he pointed me in. It coaxed a tiny laugh out of his lips.

"Oh be quiet."

We parted ways and I was received by a bunch of assistants with lists on their tablets and headsets over their ears. "Number twenty-seven? Read this and wait here." They had a couple of us standing in a line, and I could see from where I was, the brother-and-sister duo somewhere up front near the dressing room.

There were voices down the other hallway and strangely enough, one of them sounded exactly like Andre's; except it was clear that the bunch of us here weren't allowed anywhere near that side of floor fifty-two. They even had a guy stationed there turning people away from the doorway. Like it was off-limits.

I was curious.

Andre had to be on the show. His personality was perfect for spicing up any boring production—they knew he was going to entertain a global audience, alongside people on the internet looking for a kick out of his classic ragebait reactions. So not seeing him around at pre-prod events like these didn't really make any sense.

"Did you read the size chart?" Someone came around with a clipboard and a list. "Chef jacket and apron size please."

I scanned the bunch of numbers. "... L?"

Her reaction was to frown and pull out a measuring tape, hold it across my shoulders, and say: "XL for both. See that guy in the blue shirt? When he calls your number and gives you the temp chef jacket and apron, you put them on and head over to the far end. There are three shots in total: one full body standing, one full body sitting, and one waist-up shot. Double that if they like you without the jacket." Then, she left.

The instructions were simple and it sounded like they wanted us in and out of the building within ten minutes. They did have sixty people to go through, so. Made sense.

"Twenty-seven!"

I was called in after a couple of minutes of waiting around. The guy in the blue shirt took one look at my face, whispered in an assistant's ear, and then told me to stand on the marked out spot in front of the camera.

I just stood. No chef's jacket, no apron, just whatever the hell I turned up in (station shirt and sweats) and for some reason, they didn't seem to care. A couple of shots later, they handed over a black apron with the production's logo embroidered at the chest area. Then, it was the chef's jacket. Also black.

"Wrap twenty-seven. Get the next guy on set." Things went smooth and I was shown aside to remove the stuff I had on when someone came up to me with a business card.

"You got an agent?" The way he held it out to me, without any prompting or even a handshake before starting the convo, was weird.

To be clear, he wasn't exactly nice about it, but not what people consider a complete asshole either; so I kinda just looked at him and frowned. Didn't reach for the card. "No...?"

"Well you need someone to represent you on productions like these, and you're gonna wanna take that." He was referring to the card in his hand.

"I'm not even on the show yet," I tried to tell him, but he wasn't listening.

"I know who you are. We manage big names all the time. Mostly Hollywood, but you know them. Heck, used to be your dad's agent. Will Carter. Fiona West. Don't tell anyone, but there's a ton of cash backing this show, so. Give us a call." He waved the card; held it out again.

I took it just to shut him up, but tossed it as soon as he left.

Then, out of the corner of my eye: fluffy pale hair. He was walking among a small group, along the glass walls lining the hallway, half-frosted. He looked in, and our eyes met. Standing right beside him was Siegfried, who followed his gaze and noticed. All of this was bad timing. The last thing I wanted was the celebrity chef coming up to me for a chat and drawing attention like he always does.

Thankfully, I'd underestimated how good snowstorms were at the mindreading thing.

The next thing I knew, he'd turned around to pull a couple others into a conversation, including Siegfried and the talent agent who he apparently also recognized. The distraction worked; I got out before anyone else could stop me for a chat.

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[Vanilla]

How! How dare. What does he think he's doing, removing his chef's jacket in that manner and and and then looking straight into my eyes as though he'd sensed my gaze. Absolutely criminal. How could someone like that exist, if at all? The injustice! Look away, Vanilla. Look away! Just because you were treated to some nuggets of information (ah, yes, finally, some insight on his tattoos) at the start of the day doesn't give you an excuse to ignore all other instances of misbehaviour.

Not to mention, these were mere cases of coincidence; simple occurrences of chance. Sheer luck. Now that we were to be crossing paths at work, increased interactions should, in fact, be expected. Setting professional boundaries meant reminding myself not to read into every single interaction.

Already, I should be counting my blessings, being able to observe Leroy from afar without having to approach him directly. Ever since that incredibly awkward and tensed moment I had experienced with Erlynn in the hallway a week ago, just the two of us alone was not going to do very well with my heart. Even if I were to approach Leroy without a proper reason for conversation, nothing but odd gibberish and non-English would soon manifest thanks to my current state of mind: malfunction.

All thanks to a certain little feline.

Alas, besides the unreasonably packed production schedule courtesy of demanding business partners and last-minute meetings, every other available second of waking thought of mine was occupied by a stubborn, spoiled little addition to the apartment that simply cannot be judged by its adorable paws and warm amber eyes.

Allow me to explain.

-- A week ago --

It was thundering in the distance that Saturday evening. I was on my way home after parting ways with Leroy and the rest of station twelve's delightful company when my phone started going off. The call that preceded this was nothing short of dreadful. And yes, I do, unfortunately, take work-related calls even on my days off. Business partners love a workaholic.

"Good evening Mr. Cooper," I sighed, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk with the intention to make things short. "I hope your weekend has been... enjoyable."

"Same to you, Mr. White. Let's skip all that and jump straight to the matter at hand." Cooper was the spokesperson of a major stakeholder. And for him to be calling at a time like this on a Saturday evening suggested instructions by a superior; or perhaps more specifically the director himself. I knew the latter personally—his wife was quite the fan of my writing. "This concerns the big production starting next week."

"What about it?"

I resumed my walk down the street, approximately eight minutes away from home. The skies above thundered once more. And along with that came the odd squeaking of something down the alley to my left, just a couple of steps ahead. I paused.

"Exactly my point, Mr. White. You are young, and inexperienced. In fact, you don't seem very aware of the influence a production like this can have over one's entire career in the industry. It has Siegfried Cox's name all over it. Even Will Carter's put his foot in the door, and he's not the only one. I cannot stress how important this is to our partners. Do you understand the impact of your performance on future clientele?"

I nearly scoffed. Culinary entertainment was full of bumbling idiots like him.

Either way, the last sentence was really all I heard because the diner up ahead had warm lights and the tempting scent of chargrilled peri-peri chicken filtering out onto the sidewalk but that was not the point. Merely out of curiosity, I'd stood at the end of the alleyway and squinted at the darkness to make out the source of the squealing, accompanied by the squawk of ravens. Not the most unusual scene in a common alley.

"I'm sure my performance in the production would have an impact on GLACÉ's future clientele just like everything else I do, Mr. Cooper." The squealing increased in frequency, seemingly urgent as the ravens landed on a waste disposal bin overlooking a stack of cardboard boxes. "Perhaps I could reach out to your director on Monday to speak about this in detail? Wouldn't want to waste any of your time on a... Saturday evening."

I had my reservations. It didn't take a genius to make a couple of intelligent guesses at what was inside one of those cardboard boxes and the initial intention had, of course, merely been to send the ravens looking elsewhere for supper.

"I can tell you're not convinced, Mr. White. Doesn't matter. We know how you do business and trust me, we don't wish to go out of our way to upset you either. I'll arrange for a short call with our director on Monday afternoon. How does that sound?"

Hoping the ravens would respond to my presence, I stepped into the alley and tapped my foot against a nearby bin. Heads turned. Paused. And then resumed the better activity of menacing their prey.

"Sounds... perfect, Mr. Cooper. I appreciate your assistance. I'll talk to you on Monday. Have a lovely weekend." "Same to you." I dropped the call and put my phone away, just in case I had the misfortune of fumbling and losing it in the darkness.

The ravens, perched on the side of a large-sized garbage bin, had their gaze lowered at the top-most cardboard box of the stack and one of them, in a single, swift motion, made a grab at its contents with its beak.

Whatever was in the box did not take this very well. In fact, it appeared to respond to their menacing with one of its own; squealing in a way that to itself, might have sounded like a roar. From the top of the box, I caught a glimpse of something reaching up to swat at the raven's beak.

Unsurprisingly, this only served to further agitate the ravens and as a result, had them aggressively intimidating the kitten with wide open wings and unhappy squawks. As a fellow bird-communicator, speaker, thing, I stepped in to mediate.

"There is no dinner here," I said to the ravens, a couple of feet away from the bin, waving my messenger bag around. "You'd have better luck elsewhere, down the back of the diner. Try there. They have grilled chicken, if that interests you."

It worked.

The ravens paused after taking one look at me and fled as I drew closer, sending the stack of cardboard boxes tumbling over by accident. The squeals turned into softer, panicked mewls and immediately, I was anxious—righting the boxes one by one in search for it. Needless to say, the alley was dark and cold. Gloves helped to a certain extent, but the tips of my fingers were numb when I pulled out my phone to turn the flashlight on.

Among the pile of overturned boxes was a black kitten, flinching at the light and scrambling a little. I put my phone away and relieved it of the obstruction over its head, stacking the boxes in an orderly manner before turning to the tiny thing.

It was uninjured; frightened, but not a scratch. Confirming this was my cue to leave the alley, stepping back and out onto the sidewalk to continue my journey home.

Lo and behold, said little one emerged from the shadows, padding after me on the dimly-lit sidewalk and mewling as it did. I turned in the direction I was headed for, and then back at the kitten. "Oh. What a... rare coincidence. You're this way, too?"

It stopped at my heel, and under the warm light filtering out of the diner and onto the street, I caught a proper glimpse of its tail. Trembling. I made a couple of steps farther down the sidewalk and still, it followed.

I sped up my pace by a decent thirty percent and then chanced a peek over my shoulder. Still, it was there—some distance behind, but admittedly doing its best to keep up. I could hear it for the next ten minutes of walking, just mewling and padding along after me until we arrived at a traffic light and... well. As an avid follower of rules and regulations, I'd never cross at a red. It did not matter if the road was empty.

This therefore allowed the little one to arrive, once again, at my heel—just huddling close for warmth. From my point of vantage, it was a thing of tiny destruction. Possibly frightened but with the qualities of determination and insistence, made itself out to be quite the object of fear. Its stubborn nature reminded me of someone I should not be thinking about; and it being quite the fighter, too, judging by the way it had lashed out at the ravens despite having lost in terms of numbers and physical size. Although size was never one of his... n-no. Never mind. Not something I should be thinking about.

"Logically speaking, if you were birthed out in the wild and should a pair of omnivorous ravens come after you as your natural predator, so be it," I said to the little one at my heel. "Such is the way of nature and should you, a kitten, be menaced and attacked and, um, eaten alive then... well, yes. It is what it is. Do you understand?"

The green man was up and I started across the road, halfway there when I realized the absence of mewling. A glance over my shoulder confirmed my suspicions: the kitten did not know what to think of road-crossing. It was held up by the juxtaposition between the pavement and the roughness of the tar on the road, placing and retracting its paw and also wary of the one vehicle that had slowed to a stop while the pedestrian light was green.

I stared at it in disbelief. "Are you not going to cross? After all those ravens and stubborn strength of yours, you're afraid of a road?" It mewled.

I turned back at the light that was on countdown and then back at the little one. A thundering of the skies and then, a drop of rain upon my cheek.

There was something about beings left behind that pulled at the strings of the heart. I like to think it wouldn't hurt to care for such beings. After all, they had no one else.

"Oh you idiot," I sped back to the other side of the road I'd come from, picking the kitten up in my gloved hands and then crossing the road before the end of the countdown. "You really don't need someone like me to take care of you because, well, I'm sure you're perfectly fine on your own, but. I suppose you could use some shelter during the storm."

Once home, I placed it at the entrance of the apartment and prepared a tiny saucer of water for drinking whilst running a warm, wet cloth down the top of its head and back. Then it was a minute or two of professional googling and finding other ways to clean it without being a frightening human.

It was after ensuring the little one was free of 'dark alley remains' that I introduced it to the same fleece throw that a certain other idiot had taken to during his short stay. I cleaned and refreshed the saucer of water before taking the bundle to the living room for some added warmth. Its mewling had reduced in frequency and it looked increasingly sleepy in the comfort of the warm fuzzy material.

I was on the internet for another ten minutes or so ensuring that I'd done everything I could before coming up with a list of shelters I could drop the kitten off at for proper care when I realized a rather upsetting possibility.

Black cats did not enjoy high rates of adoption compared to its counterparts. It crossed my mind how the little one might have to spend the rest of its life in a place where they kept all the other unwanted ones; and how some places often ended up giving their lives an early end.

There were several other factors to consider: if I was going to be a decent owner at all or if the apartment was even kitten-safe or if my schedule would allow such an attention-demanding task but in the end, it would all boil down to effort and will.

I turned to the little one all curled up on the fleece throw, fast asleep on the couch by my thigh.

"You're lucky I have a soft spot for felines." And lions.

Especially lions.

I reached over with a finger to pet its head gently. "I suppose you're quite the lion too."

So yes. All this had somehow, by the fortune of stars in the sky and strawberry-flavored pudding, led to my acquiring of Leo—a sweet, spoiled, but special new companion in my daily routine of grey skies and cold rain.

Work and personal life aside, he filled my mornings with the scent of milk formula and my evenings with squeaky toys. The added responsibility of Leo's wellbeing to my plate meant that I had much less time to myself, and none to be spent idly thinking about the past or the future.

Days went by in the snap of a finger and before I knew it, I was seated in the dressing room for judges at six in the morning, waiting for the rest of my counterparts to arrive on the day of the preliminary round.

"Ay! Banilla you are here. You eat already?" Chef Pao was at the door with a tote bag in his arms and sunshine in his eyes.

I, on the other hand, had been kept up all night by Leo's mewling and the alarms I'd set to feed him milk formula (by the syringe, mind you). Needless to say, I was in for a rough day of filming, and being rushed into the dressing room by the staff upon arrival had started the day with a figurative punch in the face. Also, on my way here, I'd seen the sheer number of cameramen smoking outside the warehouse and was promptly reminded of the production budget's sheer size.

"Breakfast? No, um. Not yet, actually. I tend to avoid meals on tasting days, so... since we have sixty dishes on our plate today, I thought I'd just have a cup of tea in the morning."

"Oi no," Chef Pao showed himself into the room alongside his assistant, who appeared to be going through a folder of papers. He looked perfectly appalled. "How can you not eat breakfast? Most important meal of the day. Come. I have this pan de sal I bake myself. Take it."

He then proceeded to shove an entire box of bread into my arms; the box having been magically produced out of his tote bag. I took a peek under the lid. Pan de sal was not an unfamiliar name, being perhaps the most iconic staple bread from the Philippines but this one, I observed, had a unique purple shade. The shape of it, as well, resembled the very, u-um, very familiar look of a specific set of bread rolls.

"Ube-flavored?"

"You know ube?" Chef Pao laughed. "Very good. And did you read the new script Stan sent yesterday? They print yours over there." He pointed at his assistant with his lip, who came by to hand me a set of papers.

I nodded and thanked them both before reaching into the box for a taste of Chef Pao's creation. Lo and behold, my expectations were well exceeded.

This was no gimmicky, purple-colored, aesthetic bread rolls; the man knew what he was doing. They were traditional—soft and fluffy, of course—and yet, surprised in a way that felt quite like biting into marshmallows except they weren't. The surface was textural from the fine crumbs dusted on top of the dough, a signature feature of pan de sal, but the way they almost melted in my mouth on the other hand, reminded me of Chip's hot cross buns.

And all of a sudden, I missed him very much.

"Banilla, come sit here." My counterpart patted the chair next to him down the row of vanities. Mirrors lined with lights.

I did as told, reaching for my brief and scanning its contents. Past the call sheets that I'd seen days prior to the preliminaries, an updated timeline and today's schedule, there was what appeared to be a revised script with a name list attached to the back.

"Oh! Sorry." The assistant snatched the list right out of my hands in the blink of an eye. "I don't think that was supposed to be there."

"Why so suspicious?" Pao appeared genuinely puzzled by her behaviour. "It's just some names."

"We were told not to reveal them just yet. Chef Streisand hasn't been informed either."

The two of us exchanged a look in the mirrors of our vanities.

It was no secret; most reality TV competitions in the industry had scripted or pre-selected members of the cast even after filtering out profiles that were unsuitable for entertainment. This was all part of the setup. Sixty hopefuls attend the preliminaries, vying for a spot on the show—only to realize that half the cast had already been chosen.

"At first, you see the number twelve. And then you realize oh! We are only looking for six today," Chef Pao chuckled under his breath. "Maybe some difficult decisions."

"Just two weeks ago, they were thinking of increasing the number of participants in the preliminary round for added competition..."

"And then I hear you fought back! Very brave. But what's wrong with letting us know who they invited as Masters?" He made an expression of amusement at the folder in my arms. "Without looking at it, I know Andre and Siegfried's sous chef are somewhere in there. But that's only two out of the six."

"They're all practically celebrities themselves, is what I know. Executive-level chefs of Michelin-star kitchens with decades of experience and accolades to boot. It boggles my mind that they'd put Chef Andre's name anywhere near that list, but. Here we are."

Pao laughed. "Wait till they tell you we're not supposed to say bad things about anything they make..."

"Surely, they wouldn't." I faltered as soon as I caught the look in his eyes. "Is that common practice?"

"It would not be my first time, is what I can say." His smile gave the impression of mixed feelings. "But sometimes, the reason is simple: cut down post-production time! Because you see, they cannot make these famous chefs look bad on TV, no? There are rules for these things, so if you break them, you get cut out. Very simple. But if you play the game and say good things, they have more to use. Make sense?" Chef Pao did his best to explain, which I wholly appreciated.

"So... not a word of helpful criticism?"

"Okay that one, grey area. Right?" He gestured to the imaginary space between us. "If I think one of their dishes is bad, usually I just keep quiet. Like that, easy for post-production. But if they want me to say it's bad when it taste very good, then of course no—I cannot do that! My wife will kill me. Also, it is just not my style. Luckily we don't have to deal with that today." He sandwiched his tongue between his lips for a moment of humor. "Today, we say whatever we want!"

The short conversation made things very clear: Pao was much more experienced than I was in the field of culinary entertainment, but despite this did not carry with him a shred of snobbery or arrogance.

"Thank you for the advice, Chef Pao. I will leave the um, the 'saying of the nice things' to you and Chef Streisand." Although frankly, my interactions with the other judge, Chef Streisand, had given me reason to believe herself equally honest with her words. But then again, she, like Pao, had participated in many other productions like this one, albeit on a smaller scale.

As though my words and thoughts combined were the very cue for her to show up, a brief knock on the door was soon followed by the entrance of two people: Raul first, holding the door open for Chef Amelia Streisand with the very same, boyish suavity in his smile I'd seen far too often throughout culinary school and other co-curricular activities.

I'd given him a look of warning, which he caught and promptly sent a wink my way. I rolled my eyes in return.

"Amelia! Makeup is coming in five minutes. You eat breakfast already?"

"Yes Pao, I've had my fill. How are things? You seem excited. Mr. White on the other hand, looks like he'd very much prefer the day to end as soon as possible," she turned to me with a wry smile and I cleared my throat, embarrassed by the apparent exposé.

Raul pulled up a chair from the dressing table and placed in it a briefcase filled with proposals from my office I'd told him to bring. Big shoot days often involve a ton of waiting around, or so Violet had complained in the past.

"Any revisions?" Chef Streisand picked up her brief and filled the seat across mine on the other side of the vanity.

"Nothing major," I reassured. "They want us to be dropping the news right off the bat. I can't tell if this was a last-minute decision by the producers, but even the names of invited chefs remain elusive."

"Oh. The Masters?"

"Yes, them."

"Doesn't really matter, does it? All we have to do is pick six from the lot who can hopefully rival Michelin-stars and production will deal with the rest. Plotlines are none of my business. Gives me a headache every time they go on about TV personalities and what-not." Streisand hummed, perfectly unfazed as she scanned through the pages impassively. "Mm, you're right. Nothing major."

This was all in a day's work for my counterparts, who appeared visibly relaxed and accustomed to the inner workings of showbiz. Their experience was assuring to say the least.

"So it's your first time in entertainment," Chef Streisand met my gaze in the gap between the mirrors while a stylist did her hair. "You were described as an honest man with a sophisticated palate. By your assistant, I think."

I searched for Raul and caught his gaze from across the room. He flashed a grin before going back to his phone.

"Well..." I sighed, concerned about the other things he might have revealed about my personality. "I'm afraid I've realized 'honest' isn't quite the word people in this industry would use to describe me, according to my experience of it thus far. It's not the most ideal trait to have, so I am told."

She considered this with a glint in her eye. "But some people appreciate it! I, for one, prefer sharp, discerning palates like yours. The amateurs call people like you 'picky', but true veterans understand the importance of being evaluated by the strictest standards. Chefs like Andre are just afraid they'd never measure up to others."

"He is difficult to reason with." I admitted, somewhat sure she'd seen the video of myself drenched in water courtesy of the very man. "And thank you, for saying that."

"Don't bother yourself with people like him," she sighed, sifting through emails on her tablet. "I remember dining at his restaurant ages ago. Back when he was 'new', per se. Average experience, but it was his personality that took the cake. He can be very nice when it comes to compliments. I mean, most people are. Passion and talent did him well at a younger age, no doubt. But over the years, something about being stuck in the same kitchen with the same menu, afraid of stepping out of one's... 'legacy', you could say. Things like that lead to dull blades and inflated egos."

"Agreed," was all I said with a nod.

At the very least, I did not have to deal with the aforementioned blades and egos today. The Masters were not cooking in the preliminaries—they'd already earned themselves a spot on the show—so for now, I wasn't going to spend the early hours of a long day brooding over future problems.

Either way, I had come to terms with my one-and-only strength in situations like these; the surface of a frozen lake did well at separating the waters beneath and the world above. Objectivity was the lens through which I perceived all else that existed beyond my independent mind. It is unfortunate that some things, however, existed only within it.

Candles, for instance.

Alas, even he would have to face the ice. Oddly enough, being aware of one's own biases could result in the further tipping of scales, otherwise known as overcompensating. It worked very much like a seesaw: the moment one becomes highly aware of their positive affection toward a certain person within a space that demands neutrality, they start exhibiting an overwhelming harshness in an attempt to balance the very weight of those positive feelings.

If not careful, it was entirely possible to present as overly hostile and ruthless. Parents, for one, tended to fall on the extreme end of things.

Knowing I'd see Leroy among the sixty hopefuls with his own goals and motivations did not change a thing. I was adamant on keeping things objective—if not, tempted to show him the power of icicles and snow.

Yes! I'd be afraid if I were him.

"Numbers one, two, three, it's ten minutes to go time." A man wearing a headset popped by our dressing room to say. These were numbers assigned to us on call sheets, which made things easier for logging and post-production. Reading up on common practices in the film industry pertaining to large-scale productions beforehand was perhaps the best decision I'd made thus far.

The set had taken the team less than three days to transform into its current state of camera-ready, which was no doubt an impressive feat. Located in Canary Wharf, one of London's most fast-expanding food scenes alongside its reputation as a business hub of new offices, the warehouse was now a massive arena-style kitchen that reminded me of one specific challenge we'd hosted during the culinary interschool—the one-bite buffet.

Sixty cooking stations spread out across the entire hall with overhead cameras; some in fixed positions and some, tracking the space front to back.

It looked nothing like how it did two days ago in its initial stages of transformation, when the judging panel was given a walkthrough of the set during rehearsal.

"Looking good, everyone." The show's chief director was the first to welcome us. His name was Stan. Short for Stanley, he'd emphasized. "How are we doing today? Nervous? Excited?"

Chef Pao took care of the talking. Having an extroverted counterpart among us was a blessing for my nerves. Just the thought of holding a conversation without the time and space to take in the rest of my new surroundings felt stressful enough for the morning.

The three of us were shown to the upper floor of the warehouse—a fancy gallery with a raised platform. Its main function, besides providing us an elevated viewpoint of the floorspace with all sixty cooking stations within our field of vision, was its ability to rotate. Ah yes. The necessity of dramatization.

Off to the side on both the upper and lower floors, positioned in blind spots and out of the spotlight, was the rest of the production team with scripts in hand and headsets over their ears, pointing and gesturing at a series of monitors. And among them, Siegfried.

I pretended not to notice, busying myself with the sound assistants who'd come around to mic us up during the short delay. Technical issues, they said.

"I'm so ready," said Chef Pao in excitement, turning to Streisand and I while we were having our hair and makeup fixed. "Sixty dishes. And no Andre! Not yet at least."

"Ah yes." I mused quietly. "What a pity."

"We all know he's your favorite." Chef Streisand sent a witty smile my way and instantly, I was taken by her use of sarcasm. "And don't jinx it, Pao. Every single time you say something isn't happening, it happens. That awful bake off..."

The audio crew hadn't stopped by to give our mics a sound check but I'd learned the hard way that at any point in time, as long as these things were pinned to our collars, someone could be listening.

"Ay! But that one was funny. They call it entertainment value." "That wedding cake held up perfectly fine until you started praising it." "It liked me so much it wanted to marry me." "What happened?" "Leaned right over to kiss Pao on the head, I believe." "Oh..." "It's okay Banilla, I enjoyed it. Shows are fun! To me, judging is a privilege. I can eat all day for free and no one stops me." "Not if the food becomes an obvious case of poisoning... you'd be surprised." "Ay no. They said health inspectors checked all the ingredients they bring for their dish." "You have far too much faith in how other chefs handle their food, Pao. Oh good, the delay's over! Show time, gentlemen."

I gave the revised script one last scan before handing it off to Raul by the side. Memory work was by no means my weakness, but the nerves made everything twice as hard. The lights on the upper floor went out after two sound checks, leaving all three of us under a veil of darkness while the scene below remained perfectly lit. Someone called for silence on set.

"Rolling." "Slate!" "Lights." "Cue sixty." "And... action."