On her left, a low whistle. Number Four, the Sichuan man, leaned over with a grin despite the sweat dripping down his forehead. "Didn't think you could plate like that, little sister."
Lili scoffed without looking up. "Pretty or not, it won't save a dish that smells like a spice market exploded."
Mianmian didn't rise to the bait. Her gaze stayed on her dish, her breathing calm. Inside, her heart beat fast but it wasn't panic anymore. It was fire.
She would give it her all. She had nothing left to lose.
—
The gong struck and the hall stilled.
Fifty contestants had entered the kitchen this morning. Only 20 had survived the first cut. Now only ten dishes stood, each radiating its maker's pride, sweat, and desperation.
The evaluators approached with slow, deliberate steps. Judges murmured softly as assistants carried plates one by one to the long white table at the front.
