Originally translated from the Thai language.

Adisorn shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on Chatchawin with undeniable skepticism. To a strategic architect like him, pitting a two-person team against a continental juggernaut like CK Group wasn’t just bold—it was professional suicide.

“You honestly intend to dismantle an empire with just the two of us?” Adisorn countered, his voice clipped and sharp, trying to force a sense of reality into the room. “In business, a risk this skewed is called a catastrophe. I don’t see a single path to viability.”

Chatchawin’s smile only broadened, watching Adisorn with the amused condescension of a man watching a child panic over a darkening sky. He remained composed, a lion holding all the high cards.

“Who told you there were only two pieces on this board?” he asked smoothly, his eyes glinting behind the dark lenses. “For a play this global… I would never dream of sending you and Rosé to the slaughter alone.”

With a flourish, Chatchawin gestured toward a concealed door at the side of the office. He looked like a grand director about to raise the curtain on a climactic act.

“There are other… old acquaintances… waiting to join this little crusade.”

Across the city, tucked away in an alleyway of the old business district, sat a legendary, near-mythical establishment. It was a sanctuary for the world’s elite epicureans, yet few had ever laid eyes on the man behind its divine flavors.

‘Chef Lom’ was the industry’s greatest enigma. His identity was buried deep within a sealed kitchen, shielded from the public eye. No photographs, no interviews, no digital footprint. The only proof of his existence was the ‘sensory imprint’ left by his masterpieces—rare ingredients hunted from the far corners of the earth, transformed into edible art that defied imitation.

Inside, the warm glow of ambient lights reflected off polished oak tables. The silence here was a different world—a temple where guests shed their burdens at the threshold.

Tum, the maître d’, stepped forward to greet the visitors with a soft, practiced smile. He was strikingly handsome, possessesing a clean, refined elegance that suggested an innocent, high-born gentleman. But beneath that polished veneer, Tum was a master of perception—a man who could see the ‘auras’ radiating from the human form.

The moment Tum locked eyes with Chatchawin, he felt it: a murky, olive-drab haze. It was the residue of deep-seated caution and a profound lack of trust hidden beneath the kingpin’s relaxed smile. Tum knew instantly—this visit wasn’t about the menu. There was a hidden agenda, and it was heavy with consequence.

Maintaining his poise, he gestured toward the most secluded VIP alcove in the restaurant.

Behind the heavy oak doors of the forbidden sanctum lay the true kitchen.

Ohm, a man with a rugged, effortless cool and broad shoulders, moved with predatory grace. He wore a dark leather apron over a denim shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The most striking feature was his white-rimmed vintage glasses, giving him the look of an 80s-style rebel with an impeccable sense of aesthetic.

He was Chef Lom’s right hand—the artisan whose mastery of flavor was surpassed only by his secrets.