The morning market should have been alive with its usual bustle — merchants calling out prices, carts rattling over cobblestones, the scent of herbs and fish mingling in the air. But as Arin walked between stalls with his basket in hand, he felt it again: that same faint chill from before. Conversations dipped when he approached, eyes flickered away, and hands that once greeted him warmly now busied themselves with meaningless tasks.
He stopped at a vegetable stall, one he'd relied on since his first week in Neo-Lumina. The merchant, an older woman with a wrinkled face and quick wit, usually teased him about being too picky with tomatoes. Today, her smile was stiff.
"Morning," Arin said, trying to sound casual. "Any fresh tomatoes today?"
Her eyes darted toward the crates behind her. "Sold out," she muttered.
Arin glanced at the crates — bright red tomatoes piled neatly, untouched. His chest tightened. "Those aren't spoken for?"
Her hands froze over her apron string. "They are. Reserved for… someone else."
He wanted to argue, to call out the lie, but the weight in her eyes stopped him. Fear. Not disdain, not annoyance. Fear. Someone had gotten to her.
He nodded stiffly and moved on.
At two more stalls he was met with the same excuse: sold out, reserved, not for him. By the fourth rejection, the basket in his hand felt heavier than iron.
When he finally found Mika waiting at the fish stall, her scowl was already brewing.
"Nothing again?" she asked.
Arin shook his head. "It's getting worse."
Mika's fist clenched around the strap of her bag. "Cowards. Whoever's behind this has them by the throat. If I catch whoever's pulling the strings—"
Arin put a hand on her arm, steady but weary. "Not here. Let's just get what we can."
The fishmonger, usually cheerful, handed over their order with a strained expression. He didn't meet Arin's eyes once.
---
By the time they returned to the restaurant, Mika was practically sparking with frustration. Tanaka noticed at once, setting down a tray of bowls he'd been arranging.
"Supplies?" he asked quietly.
"Cut off," Arin said, placing the half-empty basket on the counter.
Tanaka looked over the modest haul, lips pressing into a thin line. "A war of patience, then. They want you rattled before the real fight begins."
Mika slammed the basket down. "Why should we be patient? They're strangling us one day at a time!"
Arin stood in silence for a moment, his gaze falling to the bare shelves where vegetables and spices once overflowed. His chest ached — not from fear, but from a growing, gnawing anger.
But then he breathed in, steadying himself. "No. They want us loud and reckless. That's when they win. We'll answer quietly. With food."
---
The lunch rush arrived with its usual clatter of footsteps and chatter. But the tension from the market had followed them in.
"Did you hear? They say Tanaka's Kitchen uses cheap fish."
"I heard the spices aren't even theirs. Some trick, some… magic."
"Not safe, maybe."
The words slithered like smoke from table to table. Arin kept his head down, focusing on his station, the blade moving rhythmically over the cutting board. Mika heard them too — her glare sharp enough to cut steel — but Tanaka's calm hand on her shoulder kept her rooted.
Arin forced his focus onto the dishes. Today's menu was pared down, built around what little they had: simple rice bowls with grilled fish, miso broth, and pickled radish. Nothing fancy. Nothing that could dazzle. Just food made with care.
A pair of customers sat near the window, whispering loudly enough for half the room to hear.
"Doesn't taste like real miso."
"Could be watered down."
Mika nearly dropped a tray as she whirled on them, but Arin's voice cut softly through the tension.
"Leave it," he said. "The food will speak."
She bit her lip, trembling with anger, but obeyed.
---
The day dragged on, every whispered comment like a thorn under the skin. A young couple walked out before finishing their meal. An older man wrinkled his nose and muttered something about "cheap tricks."
But then, near closing, a small table in the corner caught Arin's eye.
It was a group of three: a middle-aged woman with silver streaks in her hair, a boy barely in his teens, and a younger man with weary eyes. They ate in silence at first, the boy poking suspiciously at his fish.
Then he took a bite. Stopped. Took another. His eyes lit up.
"This tastes like home," he blurted suddenly, voice carrying across the quiet room.
The woman smiled faintly, taking a spoonful of the miso. Her expression softened, her shoulders easing. "It's… comforting," she admitted. "Not cheap. Honest."
The younger man set down his chopsticks with a firm nod. Then he raised his voice, clear and deliberate. "I don't know who's spreading lies, but this food? It's real. It's better than real. Anyone saying otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about."
The words hung in the air, louder than any rumor. A hush swept over the restaurant.
Mika blinked, stunned. Tanaka's lips curled into the faintest smile.
Arin, for the first time that day, felt his chest loosen.
---
As the trio left, the boy lingered at the door, glancing back with a grin. "We'll be back. Don't let them stop you."
When the door closed behind them, Mika let out a shaky laugh, half-relief, half-disbelief. "Did that just happen?"
Tanaka chuckled softly. "The truth has a way of finding a voice, even in the smallest corners."
Arin said nothing, but he looked down at his hands — calloused, weary, stained with broth and spice — and felt something stir inside him.
The rumors hadn't stopped. The sabotage hadn't ended. Tomorrow would bring the same fight.
But tonight, he had proof that not everyone could be swayed by lies.
And that was enough.