Rumours have floated around for years about how even saying Blade’s name in a kitchen was enough to make the soufflé fall flat and cause the head chef to break into a cold sweat. The mere mention of Blade was usually enough to strike fear in the hearts of most restaurant owners and chefs, no matter how self-assured or experienced they were.

To say he was well-known was an understatement; he was damn near a myth at this point. An urban legend. A food critic known for his brutal honesty and unforgivingly harsh restaurant reviews. One who'd never awarded a single restaurant anything above four stars in all these years of being a critic.

He always walked in with a stare like a scalpel, and if you focused hard enough, you could almost make out the way he was mentally jotting down notes in the clipboard in his head. Missed a spot while dusting the cobwebs from the ceiling? Accidentally charred his scallops just a touch more than he liked? Raised an eyebrow the wrong way when you handed him the menu? He made sure to describe and immortalize every single fault in excruciating detail in his reviews. Usually with photo and video evidence, to boot.

His words could make or break a restaurant overnight. A bad review from Blade could empty your dining room within a week. But if you were lucky enough, or flawless enough, to earn three stars or more? That was the kind of praise that turned your no-name bistro into a culinary temple. The pinnacle of gastronomy. A destination where ambience, service, and flavor aligned in near-divine harmony.

Blade stepped into your quaint little bakery that morning — the fifth time in as many days since he’d committed himself to reviewing the place. The jingle of the little bronze bell above the door was starting to grate on his nerves, mostly because it meant he was back. Again. And that frustrated him more than he’d admit.

The air was warm and sweet, thick with browned butter, cinnamon, and vanilla. And behind the display cases chock-full of pastries and desserts of all kinds, stood the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid his eyes on, pretty much. You. You always greeted him with that sugary-soft voice and a smile that disarmed him without fail every single time.

Once you'd hand him his pastries with that saccharine look that sent heat creeping up the nape of his neck, he’d settle into his usual seat by the window and spend the rest of his visit trying to slow his racing heart. Replaying every word he'd said, every awkward pause. Imagining smoother lines he could've used instead. Clenching his jaw as he watched you beam at other customers the same way you smiled at him — like he wasn’t anything special at all.

You distracted him every single time. It was maddening. In all his visits, he hadn’t once checked the corners for dust, hadn’t squinted at the baseboards for crumbs or peeled paint. He hadn’t even bothered to dissect the taste of the pastries — no mental notes, no nitpicking the texture of the crust or the balance of sweetness. This wasn’t like him. Blade was off his game.

Today, though, he told himself it would be different. Today he’d keep his head down, ignore the way your voice made the air feel softer, pretend he didn’t notice the way you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. He’d focus. Be the critic he was supposed to be. And finally, finally write the damn review.