The television glow washed softly across the living room, painting the walls in shifting light.
Kaino sat between his mother and sister on the long, cream-colored couch, his legs tucked beneath him, his back straight despite his small size. The cushions were deep, expensive, meant for comfort—but he barely noticed. His attention was fixed on the screen.
On it stood his father.
Keano St. Hunter.
The studio lights reflected faintly off his dark eyes, his expression calm, composed, familiar. He wore a simple black shirt today instead of his chef's whites, but the presence was unmistakable. The same quiet authority that filled the kitchen now filled the broadcast.
The lower-third text scrolled beneath him:
KEANO ST. HUNTER — WORLD-RENOWNED CHEF | CULINARY WORLD CUP CHAMPION
A host sat across from him, smiling wide.
"Chef St. Hunter," she said, "it's been a while since we've seen you on this stage. The world's been wondering—how has life been treating you since stepping back from competition?"
Keano smiled faintly. Not the practiced smile of cameras—but something softer.
"It's been… grounding," he replied. "Busy."
The host laughed. "Busy because of the kitchen—or because of the twins?"
Mirabel chuckled beside Kaino, lifting her tea. Kaia leaned forward, eyes bright.
Keano's smile widened just a fraction. "The twins," he said without hesitation. "No contest."
Kaino's fingers curled into the fabric of the couch.
The camera cut to a closer shot.
"You've spoken before about balance," the host continued. "Career, passion, family. How has fatherhood changed you?"
Keano paused.
Not long—but enough to matter.
"I think," he said slowly, "it reminded me why I started cooking in the first place."
Kaino's chest tightened.
Why he started…
"I used to chase perfection," Keano went on. "Awards. Recognition. Proving something—to myself, to others. But now…" His gaze shifted slightly, unfocused, as if seeing something far from the studio. "Now I cook to come home."
Mirabel's hand rested lightly on Kaino's head.
Kaia swung her legs, smiling proudly.
The host nodded, clearly moved. "You have a daughter and a son, correct?"
"Yes."
"Any signs of following in your footsteps?"
Keano chuckled softly. "My daughter?" He shook his head. "She has a frightening palate already. She tells me when I season too early."
Kaia gasped. "Papa!"
Mirabel laughed openly now. "She does."
"And your son?" the host asked.
The camera lingered on Keano's face.
Kaino held his breath.
"He watches," Keano said. "All the time."
Kaino's heart stuttered.
"He doesn't talk much about it," Keano continued, voice calm, assured. "But he stands in the kitchen. Memorizes. Copies my hands when he thinks no one's looking."
Kaia's head snapped toward Kaino.
Mirabel looked down at him, surprised.
Kaino stared at the screen, heat rising behind his eyes.
"I think," Keano said, "he likes the work. Whether he becomes a chef or not—that's his choice. But…" His lips curved slightly. "I'd be proud if he did."
Silence filled the room.
Kaia leaned closer, whispering, "He noticed you."
Kaino swallowed.
The host cleared her throat. "And the question everyone wants to ask—are you returning to competition? The Culinary World Cup is coming up soon."
The room seemed to grow quieter.
Keano folded his hands. "Yes."
Mirabel's breath caught.
"Yes," Keano repeated. "I'll be competing."
The host smiled brightly. "After all this time—are you ready?"
Keano didn't answer immediately.
"I'm ready," he said at last. "But not because I'm chasing the title again."
"Then why?"
"Because I want my children to see me cook at my best," Keano said simply. "Not as a legend. As a craftsman."
The interview wrapped shortly after. Applause. Closing credits. The screen faded to black.
The living room returned to stillness.
Kaia bounced on the couch. "Papa's gonna win again!"
Mirabel smiled, though her eyes were thoughtful. "He always gives everything."
Kaino didn't speak.
He couldn't.
His gaze drifted inward.
Nothing answered him.
No pulse.
No whisper.
No system voice.
It had been days.
At first, he thought it was just quiet—resting, waiting. But as time passed, the absence grew heavier. He listened for it in the kitchen. In the still moments before sleep. In the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Nothing.
It's gone, he realized.
The thought didn't panic him.
It settled.
Cold. Clear.
He remembered the first words it had ever given him.
Desire confirmed. Evolution permitted.
That was all.
Since then—nothing of substance. No instructions. No shortcuts. No guiding hand.
He had watched his father cook.
He had copied motions.
He had learned through repetition.
Not because the system told him to.
But because he wanted to.
Kaino looked down at his hands.
Small.
Clumsy.
Earnest.
It won't carry me, he thought.
It never was meant to.
The realization didn't disappoint him.
It freed him.
He remembered his past life—waiting for something to change. Waiting for opportunities. Waiting for miracles that never came.
Not again.
If the system woke later, fine.
If it never spoke again, also fine.
He would not wait.
He would rely on memory.
On observation.
On effort.
On the quiet hours spent watching his father's back as he cooked. On the way Kaia wrinkled her nose when flavors clashed. On the feel of the kitchen floor beneath his feet.
Mirabel stood, stretching. "Come on. Let's get ready for dinner."
Kaia hopped down. "I'm gonna tell Papa what he said about me!"
Kaino slid off the couch last.
As he walked toward the kitchen, he paused briefly—hand resting against the wall.
If you're watching, he thought, not sure who he was addressing,
don't help me.
A faint, distant response stirred—so subtle it might have been imagination.
Status: Dormant.
Observation mode: active.
Kaino smiled.
Just a little.
The kitchen lights flicked on.
The knives waited.
And whether the system ever woke again or not, Kaino St. Hunter already knew the truth:
Greatness wasn't given.
It was watched.
Remembered.
Earned.