Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Kim family restaurant, casting warm gold on the countertops and reflecting off polished steel. The world hadn't fully woken yet, but the kitchen had—alive with purpose, like a heart beating steadily before the day began.
Karan stood in front of a cutting board, sleeves rolled up, hair tied messily, and eyes sharp with determination. The vegetables he chopped fell in perfect symmetry, each slice matching the next with almost obsessive precision. His father had always said the knife revealed a chef's soul—and Karan wanted his soul to be disciplined, steady, worthy of respect.
"Slow down, Karan," Mr. Kim said gently, standing beside him. "Cooking is not a race."
Karan didn't look up. "I know, Appa. I just… want to get it right."
Mr. Kim chuckled softly, the sound warm and reassuring. "You already are."
But Karan didn't believe that. Not yet. Not when his father was a national icon. Not when every customer compared him to a legend before he had even become a real chef.
Behind them, Nova and Lusi burst into the kitchen with familiar laughter.
"There he goes again," Nova teased, leaning close to peek at Karan's cutting board. "Our perfectionist prince."
"You're going to slice your fingers off one day," Lusi added. "And we'll have to cook for you forever."
Karan laughed, and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. His friends were sunshine, always pulling him back from the edge of overthinking.
"You two act like you don't want free food for life," he replied.
"We want your hands attached," Nova shot back.
The kitchen buzzed around them—workers preparing stock, ovens warming, pans heating. It was controlled chaos, a world Karan loved more than anything. A world he wanted to rule one day… in his own way.
But deep inside, something restless stirred. Something that whispered *This isn't enough yet.* He longed for something bigger, something that would challenge him, push him, shock him.
He just didn't know that his world was about to crack open.
---
Meanwhile — Across the City
Arthit Sakda never rushed. He didn't need to.
He walked through the pristine hallway of the Sakda corporate tower, dressed in a tailored black suit that matched the calm danger in his eyes. Employees bowed as he passed—not out of formality, but out of reflexive respect. Arthit had an aura that pressed against people, made them straighten, made them careful.
He stepped into the boardroom just as his elder brother, Anant, ended a presentation.
"Good of you to join us," Anant said, voice smooth, controlled, superior.
Arthit smirked lightly. "You already know the numbers will be perfect. With or without me."
A few executives exchanged nervous glances. Anant's jaw tightened slightly, but he let it go. Their rivalry was silent, constant, and unspoken—a storm always brewing beneath the surface.
Their father, Mr. Sakda, turned toward Arthit with an unreadable expression. "There is a new task for you."
Arthit folded his arms. "I'm listening."
"A foreign investor arrives next week. Important man. Very particular taste. Take care of him. Impress him."
"Impress him how?" Arthit asked, bored.
"With everything," Mr. Sakda replied. "Business, security, hospitality. Win his loyalty."
Arthit nodded, though inwardly he felt nothing. He had already mastered business deals and alliances. Another mission, another game of power. Nothing new.
But then Mr. Sakda added quietly:
"He has a fondness for… authentic cuisine."
Arthit's brow lifted slightly. "So?"
"So your job," Mrs. Sakda interjected with her elegant, cutting smile, "begins in the culinary world."
Arthit blinked once. "You want me to learn cooking?"
"…No," Anant said with a slight smirk. "Just don't embarrass us."
Arthit scoffed, turning away. "No promises."
He had no idea that this single task would drag him into a world he'd never bothered to look at—one filled with warmth, flavor, chaos, and one particular boy whose kindness could burn hotter than any spice.
---
Back at the Restaurant
Karan stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, wiping flour from his hands. The street was quiet, the morning calm. He inhaled deeply, happy, content—
—when a sleek black car passed the restaurant, slow and silent, its tinted windows glinting like obsidian.
Karan didn't know who sat inside.
Arthit didn't bother looking out.
But for the briefest moment, for no reason either of them understood, both felt a strange ripple inside their chests—like the first spark before a flame.
Two worlds had brushed past each other.
And the real story was just beginning.
---