The mysterious note weighed heavily on Kaoru's mind. He turned it over in his hands, tracing the unfamiliar script, searching for meaning in its brevity.
They haven't forgotten you. The words echoed in his thoughts, mingling with memories of the underground kitchens and the faces he'd tried to leave behind.
The next evening, as snow fell in thick, silent flakes, Kaoru found another message slipped under his door.
This one was more direct: Greenhouse. Midnight. Come alone.
He spent the day in a haze, distracted during class, his mind replaying every possible scenario. Was it a threat? A warning? Or something else entirely?
He tried to focus on his work, but even the familiar comfort of the fermentation chamber couldn't quiet his nerves.
Megumi noticed his distraction, offering a cup of tea and a gentle, questioning look, but Kaoru only managed a weak smile.
When midnight came, he bundled himself in a heavy coat and slipped out of the dorm. The campus was deserted, the snow muffling his footsteps.
The greenhouse loomed ahead, its glass panes frosted and opaque. Kaoru hesitated at the door, heart pounding, then pushed inside.
The air was thick with the scent of earth and old leaves. A single lantern glowed in the far corner, illuminating a figure hunched over a battered notebook.
As Kaoru approached, the figure straightened, revealing a face both familiar and changed by time—a man Kaoru had once called rival, and, for a brief, dangerous season, friend.
"Didn't think you'd come," the man said, his voice low and rough. "But then, you never could resist a challenge."
Kaoru's guard was up. "Why are you here?"
The man—Shun, a chef who had survived the underground by being both cunning and ruthless—smirked. "Word travels fast, even up here. You're making waves, Kaoru. Some people are watching. Some aren't happy."
Kaoru's breath caught. "I'm not going back. I have nothing to do with them anymore."
Shun shook his head. "It's not that simple. You're drawing attention. The old guard, the ones who want the underground to stay buried—they see you as a threat. And there are others who want to use you, to bring back what was lost."
Kaoru felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. "Why warn me?"
Shun's gaze softened, just a little. "Because I know what it's like to be hunted. And because you're not ready. Not yet. If you want to survive, you need more than instinct. You need power. Knowledge."
He slid a folded page across the table. "There are secrets in Japanese cuisine—old ways, rituals, flavor-binding techniques that even Tōtsuki has forgotten. If you want to stand a chance, you'll need to learn them. Start with this."
Kaoru opened the page, scanning the faded kanji. It was a recipe, but more than that—a ritual, a method for fermenting flavors so deeply they became inseparable.
He looked up, questions burning, but Shun was already moving toward the door.
"Be careful, Kaoru. The past isn't done with you. And neither are they."
The door closed, leaving Kaoru alone with the lantern's flickering light and the weight of new knowledge.
Back on campus, the world felt sharper, every sound and shadow charged with meaning. Kaoru hid the page in his notebook, unsure whether to trust it.
He spent the next day in a fog, haunted by Shun's warning and the promise of something deeper than anything he'd learned so far.
That afternoon, as he was cleaning up in the kitchen, Erina appeared in the doorway. She watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"Yukishima," she said, her voice tight, "what is it you're really trying to do to me… with your food?"
Kaoru froze, a bowl slipping from his hands and clattering into the sink. He turned, meeting her gaze. "I don't understand."
She stepped closer, her eyes fierce. "Every time I taste your dishes, it's like you're reaching inside me, pulling out things I don't want to feel. I can't control it. I can't stop thinking about it. Why?"
Kaoru struggled for words. "I just… I want people to feel something. To remember. To be changed."
Erina's voice trembled. "It's not fair. You make me question everything I thought I knew about taste. About myself."
He looked away, shame and longing warring inside him. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
She shook her head, frustration and something softer in her eyes. "You didn't hurt me. You made me… vulnerable. And I don't know if I hate you for it, or if I want more."
The silence between them was charged, heavy with things unsaid. Kaoru wanted to reach out, to explain, but the words wouldn't come.
Erina turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Whatever you're searching for, Kaoru… don't lose yourself. Not for them. Not for anyone."
When she was gone, Kaoru slumped against the counter, the weight of the night pressing down. He pulled out the old recipe, tracing the faded characters with trembling fingers.
The path ahead was darker than ever, but somewhere beneath the fear, a spark of curiosity flickered.
He would learn. He would grow. And he would find a way to make his food—and himself—whole.