"It's worse than we thought," Sato said, her voice a low, grim whisper. "It's so much worse."
They were huddled in her tiny, bleach-scented janitor's office, which now served as the official headquarters of their two-person counter-conspiracy. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling cast long shadows, painting Sato's face in stark relief as she stared at her encrypted laptop screen. The data from the flash drive was splashed across it, a terrifying mosaic of corporate malfeasance, unethical science, and pure, unadulterated megalomania.
"Ouroboros Agro-Science isn't a supplier," she continued, scrolling through layers of shell corporations and encrypted financial records.
"It's the parent company. This whole academy, this entire culinary program, is just one big research and development lab. A proof-of-concept for their real product. Ayame isn't just an instructor; her official title, according to these internal personnel files, is 'Director of Educational Field-Testing and Product Refinement'."
Kenji leaned over her shoulder, the smell of toner and victory fading, replaced by the cold scent of dread. He looked at the files. It was all there: chemical breakdowns of different Cerebralax variants, detailed notes on their psychological effects, and a master project schedule that laid out a chilling five-year plan.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a highlighted entry on a color-coded calendar. The entry was marked in blood red.
"Investors' Gala?"
"Happening in two days," Sato confirmed, clicking on the file.
A detailed event plan opened, complete with seating charts, security layouts, and a full menu.
"Here, at the academy. She's bringing in potential partners, board members from major multinational corporations in the food processing, private military, and technology sectors. They're coming from all over the world to see her success story firsthand and to secure funding for the next phase of the project: global expansion."
"And the demonstration?" Kenji asked, a knot of ice forming in his stomach.
"What's she going to show them?"
"A grand banquet," Sato said, her voice flat.
"Prepared by her perfected senior students, including a 're-calibrated' Suzuki Ren, if she has her way. A multi-course meal designed to showcase the flawless, predictable, and efficient output of her program." She scrolled down to the bottom of the menu, to a section marked with a dozen different security warnings. "But that's not the real demonstration. According to these notes, the food served to the investors will be laced with Cerebralax-9."
"What's version 9?" Kenji asked, though he was afraid of the answer.
Sato clicked open another file, a chemical analysis report filled with terrifyingly complex molecular diagrams.
"It's new. Fast-acting. High-potency. Unlike version 7, which requires weeks of steady dosage to achieve full compliance, version 9 is designed for… well, the file calls it 'rapid and enthusiastic compliance.' It bypasses the user's critical faculties almost instantly. It doesn't just suppress creativity; it induces a state of heightened suggestibility and euphoria. A chemical hospitality. She's not just going to sell them on the program, Kenji. She's going to make them its newest, most powerful victims right then and there. She's planning a hostile takeover of the minds of some of the most influential people on the planet."
The scope of it was staggering. This wasn't just a conspiracy anymore; it was the prelude to a silent, global coup, orchestrated with pastry bags and chemical vials. They had to stop it. And they were entirely, hopelessly on their own. The agency couldn't move in time, not without risking an international incident of unprecedented scale.
"We can't do this ourselves," Kenji said, the decision forming in his mind, solid and heavy as a block of iron.
"We're outgunned and outnumbered. We need a team."
"A team of who?" Sato countered, finally looking up from the screen, her eyes tired but sharp.
"We can't trust anyone in the faculty. We don't know who is on her payroll. We can't call in backup. We are on our own."
"No," Kenji said, a strange, unfamiliar sense of resolve settling over him.
He thought of Tanaka's fierce loyalty, the tall boy's analytical mind, Ren's newfound fire, the quiet girl's surprising courage. He was, he hated to admit it, a cult leader. And his cult was the only army he had.
"I think we can."
The emergency meeting of the Society for Culinary Deconstruction was held an hour later in a dusty, forgotten storage room full of bulk flour sacks and giant, industrial-sized cans of tomato paste. The air smelled of old grain and secrets. Kenji, Sato (introduced as his "logistics and sanitation expert," a title she seemed to enjoy), and a newly liberated, fiercely determined Suzuki Ren stood before them.
"She is putting a chemical in the food," Ren explained to the twenty shocked, horrified students, his voice filled with the passion he was rediscovering.
"A chemical that removes a chef's soul. It makes you perfect, and it makes you empty. I was one of them. I was a machine. Takahashi-san… he showed me the cage I was in. He cooked a fallen cake and it shook the foundations of my prison."
The students stared at Kenji with a new, terrifying level of awe. He wasn't just a philosopher; he wasn't just a prophet; he was a liberator.
"The Investors' Gala is her endgame," Kenji said, taking command, his voice steady and low.
"She plans to drug some of the most powerful people in the world and expand her operation. We are going to stop her. We are going to hijack the banquet."
Sato, now in her element as a mission commander, stepped forward and laid out a series of schematics she'd printed on the back of old cleaning schedules. It was the plan, a masterpiece of culinary espionage she had conceived in the last hour.
"The operation has two phases," she began, her voice crisp and professional.
"Phase one is intelligence and infiltration. Ren will be our inside man. He will accept Ayame's 're-calibration' and get back into her kitchen. He'll be our eyes and ears, reporting on their prep, timing, and security. I will handle electronic security, rerouting camera feeds, disabling alarms, and creating a window for us to operate. Phase two," she said, looking around at the wide-eyed students, "is the main event. You will be Kenji's army."
"We will not just stop her banquet," Kenji declared, the words seeming to come from somewhere outside himself.
"We will stage a culinary counter-offensive. We will prepare our own banquet. A meal that celebrates everything Ayame seeks to destroy: passion, chaos, creativity, flaws, memory… heart. At the last possible minute, we will switch our food for theirs."
It was the most ridiculous, high-risk, and frankly stupid plan of his entire career. It was perfect.
Tanaka, her eyes shining with a revolutionary fervor that was both inspiring and deeply unsettling, raised her hand.
"What will we cook, senpai? What is the philosophy of our counter-banquet? What will be our grand statement?"
Kenji looked at his ragtag army of misfit culinary students. He looked at his deprogrammed boy-wonder prodigy. He looked at Sato, his ever-reliable partner in this descent into madness. He thought about his own singular, cursed, inescapable talent. The answer was obvious. It was the only answer he ever had. He took a deep breath, ready to give the most important, and most honest, speech of his life.
"Alright, everyone," he said, his voice ringing with an absolute, if entirely unintentional, authority.
"Listen closely. Here is the plan. Here is our philosophy. Here is our truth." He leaned in, and twenty-one aspiring chefs leaned in with him.
"Let's get scrambled."