The kitchen was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of machines that Chef Ryu Nakamura no longer heard. His chest felt like someone had placed a anvil on it, crushing down with each labored breath. The white tiles below him were cold against his cheek, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear his sous chef screaming for an ambulance.
Forty-five years old. Three Michelin stars. And I'm dying on a kitchen floor.
His vision blurred, but muscle memory kept his fingers twitching, as if still plating that final dish, the one he'd never finish. Twenty-five years of relentless pursuit. Fifteen-hour days. Missed birthdays. Failed relationships. All for stars on a page and validation from critics who'd never spent a day behind a stove.
What was it all for?
His mother's face swam into view, a memory from childhood, her gentle hands teaching him to fold gyoza. "Ryu-chan," she'd said with that warm smile, "cooking isn't about being the best. It's about making people happy. Remember that."
He'd forgotten. Somewhere between culinary school and the Michelin guide, he'd forgotten.
I'm sorry, Mom. I lost my way.
The darkness came softly, like falling asleep after a double shift. And for the first time in decades, Chef Ryu Nakamura felt at peace.