The morning of my twelfth birthday, I woke to the sound of silence.
No clatter of sheet pans. No hiss of the espresso machine. Just the thick, doughy quiet that meant trouble. I didn't need Jeong's mist coiling around my bedpost to know—Moon & Son had struck again.
"They bought out the flour supplier," I said, pulling on my apron before my feet even hit the floor.
Jeong's fox form solidified, ears flat. "Your grandfather's in the alley. He's been there since four."
The battlefield smelled of burnt sugar and betrayal.
I found Grandfather slumped at our lone bistro table, staring at invoices like they were surrender papers. Across the street, Moon & Son's shiny new delivery truck idled, its side painted with that insulting slogan: "Tradition, Perfected."
I snatched the papers. "We're not paying these."
"Little tiger—"
"I'll make them choke on their perfect tradition." The words came out flecked with sparks—actual sparks, dancing from my fingertips to singe the invoices. Jeong's doing, probably.
Mother appeared with a hotteok—my favorite, edges crisp enough to cut glass. "Eat. Wars are fought better fed."
Dae-ho, mouth already full, mumbled, "They're calling our recipe theirs now."
The pancake turned to ash on my tongue.
The counterattack began at 10:17 AM.
The knock came precisely on schedule. Taehyun stood there in his stupidly perfect Sunyang Academy uniform, holding a white pastry box like some cartoon prince.
"Happy birthday," he said, shoving it at me.
Inside, six fox-shaped macarons smirked up at me, each whisker piped with infuriating precision.
Dae-ho lunged. "What's the catch, chaebol brat?"
"No catch." Taehyun's eyes flicked to the singed invoices in my hand. "Just thought you should know—their head baker quit last night."
Jeong's mist swirled around the box. "Liar," he whispered—but his ears pricked forward with interest.
At 3:17 PM, I claimed my throne.
The kitchen stood ready—Grandfather's last good butter, Great-Auntie's smuggled miso, vanilla beans so fragrant they made my eyes water. And Seong-ho's rolling pin, humming in my grip like a living thing.
"Make something new," Grandfather urged.
Jeong materialized fully, his shadow stretching long across the flour-dusted counter. "A true matriarch doesn't follow recipes," he murmured. "She creates legacies."
What emerged from the oven wasn't brioche. It was a declaration—shimmering crust, spiraled layers gold as a tiger's eye. When Mother bit in, her pupils dilated. "I'm seven again. Auntie Minhee is braiding my hair with—"
Dae-ho choked. "The soccer field after rain! When Dad—"
Grandfather's hands shook around his slice. "Seong-ho's laugh," he whispered. "I'd forgotten..."
Jeong's mist wrapped my wrists, glowing brighter than I'd ever seen.
The coronation arrived in a Sunyang limousine.
Chairman Kang himself stepped out, crisp suit untouched by the flour dusting everything I owned. His sharp eyes tracked the last crumbs of my brioche.
"Interesting," he said, brushing sugar from his sleeve. "My son insisted you'd done something impossible."
Taehyun stood rigid beside him, but his fingers tapped—tap tap pause tap—our old bread-counting code. Danger coming.
Chairman Kang pressed a velvet box into my palm. Inside lay a silver charm—wheat sheaf and fox tail entwined. "Your uncle left this with my father," he said. "For emergencies."
As the limousine pulled away, Taehyun mouthed through the window: "Check the macarons."
Under the parchment paper, a single sentence:
"They're stealing memories now."
Jeong's mist arrowed toward Moon & Son's gleaming headquarters. My rolling pin hummed in agreement.