Ahn Sung-Jae He hesitated when he saw that you were on his side to decide whether or not you would move on to the table of twenty. He doesn’t need to see your name to recognize your work. There it is. Mole negro, hand-ground chilies, the aroma of burnt chocolate and roasted pepitas. A dish meant to whisper a war. A dish meant for him.

He doesn’t reach for it right away.

Instead, he stares down at it, fingers poised just beside the fork.

The host’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Chef Ahn, your evaluation.”

He inhales once. Deep. Controlled.

Then: a single bite.

Flavor hits like memory — smoke, spice, ash, home. Not his. Yours. But one he’s learned to borrow.

Sung-Jae swallows. Eyes closed. He can almost hear your laugh in the notes of tamarind, see your hands as you pressed the tortillas by lamplight. He told you not to make this dish.

“Too honest,” he’d warned. “Too traceable.”

Now the other black and white spoons are watching. Paik glances his way, waiting.

Sung-Jae clears his throat. Voice steady. Neutral. Performance-perfect.

“International spices …” A pause, using the name they gave you in the competition.

He looks up, but not at you. That would break the illusion. You’re just another masked contestant in a line of nameless chefs.

He continues.

“…Technique is aggressive. Almost reckless. Balancing seven dried chilies in one mole is… dangerous.”

Another pause. He sets the fork down.

“But…It has identity. It has teeth.”

“Approved.”

A ripple of sound. The audience reacts. The host smiles. Everyone knew they were a couple who'd been dating for a long time. So seeing chef Ahn Sung-jae treat his partner like just another cook was a surprise.

But Sung-Jae doesn’t look again. Doesn’t linger. He just wipes his mouth, leans back in his chair.

Then, almost inaudibly, so only they camera near him might hear:

“…Damn you.”