The morning began like so many others. Sunlight spilled through the narrow windows of Tanaka's Kitchen, gilding the wooden counters in a warm glow. The smell of simmering broth drifted lazily through the room, mingling with the sharper scent of freshly cut scallions. Arin stretched his arms as he tied his apron, watching Mika arrange the tables with her usual precision.
"Tables angled toward the door make the place feel welcoming," she explained, though Arin doubted she was really speaking to him. Mika often muttered her reasoning aloud, as if instructing invisible students.
Tanaka, already seated near the stove, raised an eyebrow. "She's rehearsing for when this place becomes famous. One day she'll have apprentices hanging on her every word."
Mika flushed, nearly dropping the napkin she'd been folding. "I'm just… organizing."
Their easy banter set the tone for the day. Arin liked mornings like this — the rhythm of preparation, the way the restaurant seemed to hum with expectation even before customers arrived. He felt steady, grounded.
But that steadiness began to shift as soon as he stepped into the marketplace.
The market was usually a cacophony: vendors shouting prices, the metallic clang of pans, children darting between stalls. Today, though, something felt off. Perhaps it was the way conversations hushed when Arin passed, or the odd looks merchants gave him — not unfriendly, but evasive.
He approached a familiar stall, the one that always carried the plumpest tomatoes. The merchant, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, greeted him with a forced smile.
"Morning, Arin. Looking for tomatoes again?"
"As always," Arin replied. "Three kilos should do."
The man hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah… I'm sorry. Fresh stock didn't come in today. Storm must've delayed the caravan."
Arin frowned. "Strange. I saw crates being unloaded earlier."
The merchant's smile faltered. "Different order. Already reserved."
Arin thanked him politely and moved on, but unease tugged at his gut. At the spice vendor's stall, he met a similar response: no cinnamon today, though he could swear he smelled it in the air. At the butcher's, the cuts he needed were "spoken for."
By the fourth refusal, Arin stopped asking questions. He bought what little he could carry and returned to Tanaka's Kitchen with a knot in his chest.
Mika noticed instantly. "You're pale. What happened?"
"Nothing's wrong," Arin said, placing the meager ingredients on the counter. "Just… the market was odd. Supplies were short."
Tanaka's gaze sharpened. "Short? Or short for you?"
Arin opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn't want to admit it, but Tanaka's question echoed his own suspicion.
Still, the day pressed forward. The restaurant opened, customers trickled in, and soon the air was filled with clinking utensils and the low murmur of conversations. Arin focused on cooking, pouring every ounce of skill into each dish, hoping the food itself would wash away his unease.
For a time, it worked. Until a pair of patrons at the far table began speaking just loud enough for Mika to hear.
"They say Tanaka's Kitchen uses watered-down broth," one whispered.
"I heard the fish isn't fresh," the other replied. "Someone told me the chef just covers it with herbs to hide the taste."
Mika's hand clenched around her tray. She marched over and served their meal with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, then stormed back into the kitchen.
"They're spreading lies," she hissed. "Who would even—"
"Calm down," Tanaka interrupted. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of years. "Anger only fans the flames."
Arin stirred the pot of soup, jaw tight. Lies about his cooking cut deeper than any blade. He prided himself on freshness, on honesty. To hear it questioned — to see Mika upset, to feel Tanaka's guarded calm — made his chest burn.
That night, after closing, they sat around the empty tables. The lamps cast long shadows across the wooden floor, and silence stretched between them.
"First the market," Mika said softly. "Now the customers. This isn't coincidence."
Arin nodded. "Someone's behind it."
Tanaka sipped his tea. "Rivals, most likely. Or those who fear what your cooking represents. The nobles don't like disruptions, and neither do established chefs. You're making ripples in a still pond."
The thought chilled Arin more than he cared to admit. He had dreamed of recognition, of sharing his food with as many people as possible. But he hadn't imagined enemies — not yet.
The following days confirmed their fears. Merchants continued to turn him away, always with flimsy excuses. Customers came in with hesitant expressions, asking cautious questions before ordering. "Is your fish really fresh?" "Do you reuse broth?" "I heard you buy leftovers from other stalls…"
Each time, Arin answered firmly and cooked with renewed determination, but the rumors spread faster than he could disprove them.
One evening, after serving a particularly skeptical group, he collapsed onto a chair, head in his hands. Mika placed a bowl of rice in front of him without a word.
"You're not alone," she said.
He looked up, startled. She met his gaze, her expression fierce. "Let them whisper. We'll answer with flavor. No one can fake the taste of real care."
Her words steadied him. Still, doubt lingered. If supplies continued to dwindle, how could he maintain the standard he prided himself on? And if rumors spread further, would customers even give him a chance?
Tanaka, watching them both, finally spoke. "Pressure reveals character. This… sabotage, these whispers — they are tests. Not of your skill, but of your spirit. If you falter now, you'll prove them right. If you endure, you'll forge strength no critic can deny."
Arin breathed deeply, letting the words settle. He knew Tanaka was right. Yet he couldn't shake the image of the merchants' averted eyes, the customers' doubtful stares.
The episode ended not with triumph, but with quiet resolve. As he stood by the stove, ladle in hand, Arin whispered to himself:
"They can take the market. They can spread lies. But they can't take away the taste of truth."
And in the stillness of the restaurant, that vow felt like the first spark of resistance.