Deep within the dark, winding alleys of Shanghai, infused with the heavy scent of herbs and pungent spices, Ros Lom sat hidden at the end of a deserted lane. Red paper lanterns flickered in the wind, casting a dim, trembling glow that barely touched the weathered wooden sign of the shop.
Yet, over the past few nights, the name of this humble eatery had become a whispered legend among Shanghai's corporate elite. Rumors swirled like steam... if one could taste the dishes of the mysterious chef here, they could find a lifeline for a plummeting business, a miracle cooked and served on a plate.
The old door creaked open. Feng, an executive director of CK Group, stepped inside with cautious, furtive movements. He hid his gaunt face behind dark sunglasses and a long overcoat, concealing his identity. The shame of being trapped by greed in the stock market had forced this once-arrogant man to seek the supernatural as his final straw.
Behind the ancient wooden counter, Ohm, wearing a dark T-shirt with faint stains, was calmly wiping a chef's knife. The soft light glinted off the steel. He looked up at the visitor with eyes that saw through the facade.
"Welcome. Sawatdee krup (HELLO) Have you eaten yet?"
The warm Thai-style greeting startled the mystery guest, who slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes and dark circles from a week of insomnia.
"Is it true... that this place can predict the future through food?" Feng asked, his voice a dry rasp. His hands were clasped so tightly they shook uncontrollably.
Ohm's lip curled into a subtle smirk. He gestured toward a single seat at the counter, which seemed perfectly placed for the occasion. "Spiritualism backed by data and analysis... you could call it a prediction if you like. But it's more accurate to call it a precise analysis that can be executed. That sounds much better, don't you think?" The chef locked eyes with the man across from him, his gaze deep and unwavering.
"Alright. Tell me what you need, and don't hold back."
Feng fell silent for a moment before his stagnant misery poured out of him. "I... I poured everything into Futures, using maximum leverage. I was certain the charts would soar, but the market took a nosedive. Now, I've hit a Margin Call. If I don't find cash to top it up within three days, everything I've built will be Force Sold." He bowed his head, sobbing. "It's not just my bankruptcy... my family, my children..." His voice trailed off, trembling, as he looked at the chef who had placed both hands on the counter, listening intently.
Ohm listened, his eyes turning as sharp as a freshly whetted blade. "Ah... gambling in the guise of investment until you're stripped bare, I see." He crossed his arms. "Investment is a risk you must shoulder yourself. Especially the kind where you don't study but believe rumors of easy profits. You're no different from a moth flying into the flame." He let out a dry chuckle.
"Honestly, I don't much like helping brainless investors... but since you came in under the daily quota, it would be against the house rules to turn you away."
Feng bowed his head, accepting the painful truth. Ohm turned to signal his partner.
"Hey, Phuak! Serve a menu for someone who likes playing with fire. Prepare the 'High-Risk Impact' dish for our desperate customer here!"
"You got it, Boss!" Phuak nodded firmly before vanishing into the kitchen.
Ohm began a lethal dance with his knife on the wooden board. He took a piece of translucent, ice-cold fish. With a single stroke of his Japanese blade, the flesh separated into thin, diaphanous slices like dragonfly wings. He sprinkled dried floral powders over them, creating a deceptive, shimmering light.
Then came the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of black pepper and chives being chopped—fast and violent, mirroring a plummeting stock chart. He used a heavy stone mortar to crush fiery red bird's eye chilies. The sound echoed through the quiet room as the red skins splattered. Finally, he added Hibiscus maple leaves, which released a thick, viscous slime until the texture was dense and clinging. A sharp sourness and scorching heat were infused into the red sauce, hiding a stinging burn.
"Speed exchanged for burning anxiety, and profits that turn to ash at the touch of a finger..." Ohm remarked as he plated the final elements. "The poor play the lottery; the rich play the stocks. There's not much difference between them and gambling. In the world of Futures, where you guess the future through sky-high leverage, greed blinds you until you forget the risk of everything."