As dawn broke over Williamsburg, the remnants of snow from the Christmas festivities still lingered, reluctant to melt completely from the sidewalks that usually bore silent witness to city life. In the biting cold, Rizwan turned on the kitchen lights at Rasa Rumah restaurant, celebrating the start of the day with the warmth radiating from the stove and the bustle of kitchen activity that had begun early in the morning. Rizwan stands for a moment at the kitchen door, as if observing a stage waiting for a performance to begin: empty pots lined up neatly, clean cutting boards without a stain, spice racks neatly arranged, ready to give a magical touch to the dishes.
In the corner of the spice rack, Rizwan's attention is fixed on one jar: a glass jar that is different from its predecessors. This one jar came without a name, delivered by a mysterious sender who called himself 'The Invisible Friend'. The mixture of bay leaves, cloves, cinnamon, and black pepper inside looked ordinary, but its presence was like a piece of a puzzle that suddenly adorned an unfinished picture.
When Emma entered the room, rubbing her hands together to ward off the lingering chill, she noticed the jar with a curious glance. "I already emailed Adam about Urban Spice Holdings. He promised to send an update this afternoon," she said, glancing at the jar with undisguised desire. "Are you sure you want to use the new spices today?"
Pausing for a moment, Rizwan took the jar and carefully opened the lid. The aroma that wafted out felt familiar—warm and deep, bringing back memories of Dita's mother's kitchen, which had always been a place to relieve homesickness.
"This isn't just a spice," he whispered softly. "The blend is exactly like Dita's mother's style. Dita agrees."
Emma leaned against the stainless steel table with implied concern. "Yes, but that's exactly what's scary. Whoever they are, they know too much. They understand taste, hometown, even the right time to send this, right after the electricity threat, when the petition was circulating, and when #LawanLelah was soaring in popularity."
Rizwan gripped the jar lid tightly before closing it again. "Let's test it first. Not on all batches. Just one pot—for us, not for customers. If anything's off, we'll be the ones to know."
He placed the jar on the prep table, then looked at Emma firmly. "Whatever happens today... we think they'll make a move. Inspections, suppliers arriving late, or whatever else they might do."
Emma took a deep breath in preparation. "Alright. That means we have to be on alert. Every gas, electricity, and stock supply needs a backup."
***
In the increasingly busy kitchen, the morning briefing took place with palpable tension, though no one said a word. Everyone had to be ready for anything.
"First," Rizwan began his briefing in front of the team, "Let's assume today is not a normal day. I don't know what could happen—a surprise inspection, mysterious guests, logistical disruptions. Therefore, keep your invoices organized, check the refrigerator temperature twice, and make sure our hygiene SOPs follow the textbook."
Miguel raised his hand anxiously. "Chef, if the power really goes out, our portable generator is enough for the refrigerator and emergency lights, but not enough for all the stoves."
Emma interrupted with a solution, "If that happens, we'll use the 'emergency menu': satay lilit, chicken kremes, and 'Lawan Lelah' (Fight Fatigue) version of portable stove. No oven or sous-vide. Everything switches to the grill and small gas stove."
Aldi and Raka exchanged glances, understanding each other. "Uncle, what about the truck in Queens?"
"The truck is running as usual," Rizwan replied. "But keep an eye on the surroundings. If there are any suspicious cars, note down the license plate numbers, don't confront them. We document, we don't provoke trouble."
Dita, standing with her clean apron, added, "And if anyone asks too many questions about 'Fight Fatigue'—the recipe, suppliers, spices—answer briefly. You can tell the story, but don't give away all the technical details."
"One more thing," Emma looked at the whole team seriously, "whatever happens, don't show panic in front of customers. This restaurant must still feel like home."
Everyone nodded, and the briefing ended with the rustling of kitchen activities filling the room again. The sound of knives stirring, pots clinking, and practiced footsteps echoed.
***
As noon approached, the restaurant began to fill with customers. Loyal customers came to take their regular seats, while several culinary tourists inspired by articles about #LawanLelah arrived with curiosity. In Queens, the truck was open and welcoming a short but steady line.
Around eleven o'clock, as Rizwan was stirring the 'Fight Fatigue' batch, the restaurant door opened without warning. A man and a woman entered, carrying clipboards with serious expressions. They wore thick jackets and scarves, complemented by gray uniforms with small city health department logos that signaled their official presence.
Miguel was the first to notice their presence, whispering cautiously to Rizwan, "Chef... inspection."
Emma approached them with an authoritative and professional smile. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"
The man produced his ID card with a sense of formality. "Department of Health. Routine inspection. Reference number." He showed a piece of paper with an unavoidable gaze. "We received a report that this restaurant has experienced a significant increase in activity—we need to make sure everything is up to standard."
With quick composure, Emma glanced at the reference number. "Routine, but it's Saturday after Christmas? A little... busy, sir."
The woman beside him smiled stiffly, maintaining her position. "The schedule is set by the system. We're just following it."
Rizwan approached, wiping his hands on his apron, as if ready for action. "Our kitchen is ready for inspection. All documents are available in the office."
The inspection began, combing through every corner: refrigerator thermometers, date labels, floor cleanliness, and food temperatures. The team had anticipated this. Some things even seemed "overcompliant"—with colorful labels and daily checklists all ready to go.
The man took careful notes, occasionally raising his eyebrows in amazement. "You guys are very organized," he commented.
The woman stopped at the spice rack, staring intently at a mysterious jar. "What is this?" she asked in an evaluative tone.
Dita approached, smiling with a composed expression. "Dried spices for internal recipe testing. Not for public service. There are no labels because they are not yet included in the official inventory."
The woman turned the jar, sniffing the faint aroma that wafted out. "It smells good. But you need to know, all ingredients used for consumption must be clearly recorded."
"Right," Emma replied quickly, making sure there were no loopholes. "This is only for staff testing. Customer batches use registered spices." Emma pointed to another shelf neatly arranged with official supplier labels.
The inspection took longer than usual. But in the end, no significant violations were found. The man signed the form with his conclusion. "No major findings. Just a small note: tighten up the recording of test ingredients."
Rizwan nodded gratefully. "Thank you. We will improve."
As they were about to leave, the woman approached Rizwan with a faint whisper, almost inaudible. "Be careful. Not all 'inspections' are like ours. Some come without a card, only with sweet offers. Those are more dangerous."
Rizwan wanted to ask more questions, but she had already turned around, following his colleague who was leaving. The door closed, leaving Rizwan and Emma sharing a questioning look.
"Did you hear that?" asked Rizwan.
Emma nodded with understanding from the start. "She knows something. But she chose to only give a warning."
Dita approached, staring at the door with deep intuition. "That means 'The Observer' isn't just one person. There could be several people in the system who see this game, but can't or don't dare to come forward."
Emma's cell phone vibrated with a message from Adam: "Update: Urban Spice Holdings has connections to three similar cases in other cities. The pattern is the same: rent increases, 'partnership' offers, then buyouts. The names behind it remain hidden. But one interesting thing: they only started getting aggressive again after one major incident… the bankruptcy of a fine dining restaurant in Midtown 7 years ago, owned by a chef who was once called a genius but fell due to an investor scandal."
Rizwan read the message with his jaw clenched. "The chef who fell... then rose behind the scenes?"
Emma bit her lip as she analyzed it directly. "It's possible that the chef... has a grudge against the restaurant world. And now he's playing through property and investment."
Dita stared at her mother's dusty notebook in her hands. "Mom also once told me about a guest chef who came to town... he was said to be a genius, but too harsh. If he fell and was angry at the system, it's possible that his story continued in this way."
"What was the chef's name?" Rizwan asked attentively.
Dita shook her head. "Mom never mentioned his name. She only said, 'Some people, when they fall, bring others down with them.'"
***
At the Queens truck as evening fell, 'Fight Fatigue' was as popular as usual, the favorite among customers that day. However, Aldi noticed something unusual: at the end of the line, there was a man who never moved forward to buy, just standing there occasionally taking photos from a distance. The man wore a dark jacket, a beanie, and a mask that covered half his face. It was a common sight in New York, but his movements were too focused on one spot.
Raka whispered with a warning, "That guy again, bro. It seems like he's been here since yesterday."
Aldi lifted his phone, pretending to take a photo of a customer—but he deliberately widened the angle to capture the man. When he looked at the photo, the man had already turned around, entered the crowd, and disappeared in seconds.
He sent the photo to Rizwan and Emma with a message: "Maybe he's just a customer... but I don't think so."
***
That night, back in Williamsburg, the kitchen had been cleaned up. Rizwan and Emma were alone in the room, deciding to continue the experiment. On the small stove, a small pot containing a batch of 'Fight Fatigue' test mixture, made with spices from a mysterious jar, was boiling.
"Shall we try it?" Emma asked hesitantly, but with curiosity.
"Okay, let's try it," Rizwan replied, agreeing to the decision.
They sat at a small table in the corner of the kitchen, two small bowls in front of them. The color of the broth looked thicker than usual, the aroma of the spices that evaporated had a veil of mystery, there was something difficult to explain—as if there was an additional layer of memory.
Emma scooped a little, tasted it. She was silent for a few seconds with her eyes closed. "This... is exactly what we want. But more mature," she said softly. "There's a slight bitterness in the background, but it's not the wrong kind of bitterness. It's a bitterness that gives warmth."
Rizwan tasted it too, as if diving into time, the flavor hitting him with a deep sensation: stew, home, travel, and at the end, something resembling... an accepted wound.
"These are the spices of someone who understands 'exhaustion' very well," he muttered softly.
Emma stared at him with wide eyes. "Is it possible that a friend or someone is controlling things from a distance?"
Rizwan put down his spoon, staring intently at his bowl. "If he's an enemy, he just gave us a weapon. If he's a friend, he's playing too far in the shadows."
Emma looked at the jar on the shelf, her thoughts clouding her mind. "And the scariest part... it's as if he's saying, 'I can enter your kitchen anytime I want.'"
Rizwan stood up, took the jar, and placed it on the top shelf with determination. "For now, these spices are ours. We'll use them sparingly, but we won't depend on them. Rasa Rumah must remain standing on the strength of our own hard work."
He turned off the kitchen light, leaving a small lamp glowing in the corner. Outside, snow began to fall again, spreading a white silence. Somewhere in the city, someone stared at a notification on their phone—the hacked internal CCTV camera of Rasa Rumah showed them tasting 'Fight Fatigue' with the spices he had sent.
The figure smiled thinly with something planned. "They received the gift," he muttered. "Now, let's see if they'll use it to challenge… or unknowingly enter the same game."
He closed his laptop, stood with scattered thoughts, and walked to the tall window facing Manhattan. In the distance, the lights of small restaurants flickered between tall buildings, signaling preparations for a night full of stories.
"The next chapter," he whispered to himself, "is no longer about whether they can cook. But whether they can remain themselves... when all the other doors they open lead to my kitchen."
In Williamsburg, Rizwan and Emma walked slowly along the snowy sidewalk, unaware that within the city's digital network, a thin line had begun to connect their kitchen to another kitchen—one they had never seen, but whose presence was beginning to envelop every inch of the game.
And that figure—whoever it was—remained a shadow, a bitter taste on the tip of the tongue that had no name. But slowly, its influence began to be felt, like spices seeping into boiling broth, spreading flavors and stories that might be more than just part of a dish.