Chương 18: Who's the Real Ratings Magnet

In the control room backstage, the mood had turned completely from how the show began. They'd all assumed today's script was "humiliation, the rerun," and they'd prepped every camera angle to catch Chris breaking down, embarrassing himself. But halfway through the round, the script had been torn to shreds.

"The ratings curve is climbing! My god, it's been going up since the moment Chris started slicing potatoes!" There was a tremor in the data monitor's voice. The director's eyes were locked on the main monitor, where Chris's profile, sitting intent before the oven, filled the whole frame. His expression calm, his gaze deep, lit by the flickering flame — there was a strange magnetism to him.

"How's the audience response?" the director asked without turning.

"It's blown up, Director!" the social-media assistant shouted.

"The hashtag #BurningKitchenPotatoGuy is already top ten on the trending board! It started out all mocking him — now the whole wind's shifted!" The assistant handed over a tablet, comments scrolling on it:"I take back what I said. That knife work — I swear to god I haven't seen hands that steady in a Michelin back kitchen."

"The way he just SITS in front of the oven like he's guarding world peace — why is that both hilarious and kind of hot?"

"Cut the heat at 185, called the oil temp 15 seconds early, pulled off the heat at the last possible instant… did this guy unlock a third eye?"

"I'll bet a hundred bucks that herb-lemon oil he made at the end is the master stroke. The logic is so clean."

"Is it just me, or do Marco and Mike next to him look like two clowns right now?" The director skimmed the comments, a fox's grin spreading over his face. This was exactly what he wanted. The reversal. The comeback. The face-slap. Ten times the ratings of a plain humiliation bit.

"All cameras, listen up!" The director picked up the radio, his voice tight with excitement.

"From now on, station one is the absolute main angle! I want every tiny move he makes, every look in his eyes!" Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"Camera five, get Marco's face! Yes, he's got to be sweating now — I want that jealous, can't-accept-it expression!"

"Camera seven, lock onto Vane! He hasn't shown a face like this in a long time. Cut him and Chris together, side by side!"

"Music! Change the BGM! Drop this tense, suspense stuff and bring in the… king-returns, epic-feeling track!" The whole control team ran like a precision machine kicked into overdrive. They'd caught the scent of the best segment of the year. On the floor, the audience felt the shift in the air too. On the big screen, the shots of Chris multiplied. Every detail of his work was magnified, framed in close-up. The contestants around him gradually became backdrop.

The viewers who'd come for a spectacle were now won over by Chris's near-miraculous execution and his frighteningly calm presence.

"This guy… he really is different."

"He's not here for revenge. He's here to teach a class."

"Why does the way Vane looks at him seem more and more like he's looking at a… future rival?" At the table, Vane was indeed fully drawn in by Chris. He no longer watched the other contestants. His entire attention was fixed on station one. He'd seen how Chris built the foundation of the dish with three forms of potato, how he handled the ingredient with classic French technique, how he controlled temperature with scientific reasoning, and how he lifted the flavor with a stroke of near-genius inspiration.

All of it landed precisely on his own aesthetic. Precise, classic, respectful of the ingredient, clean in logic. The dish wasn't even out of the oven, and Vane could already imagine its taste. He felt an absurd illusion, even. This young man wasn't competing in a contest — he was holding a conversation with him, across distance, through this dish. He was telling him, through it: Look — this is the heat control you said I couldn't manage. Look — this is the classic technique you prize.

Look — I didn't just patch my weak points. I went above your standard and made something of my own. Vane's throat moved without his willing it. He couldn't remember the last time a contestant's dish had made him feel this kind of… anticipation. And meanwhile, the other focal figure on the floor, Marco, was close to a mental collapse. He could feel, clearly, every camera abandoning him. He could feel the audience's eyes no longer resting on his expensive, caviar-dotted purée.

He could even feel Vane at the table not sparing him a single straight look. He was like a star who'd arrived in full dress to be the lead of the night, only to have a repairman in coveralls steal the whole show with a wrench. Being ignored like this hurt worse than direct criticism. His breathing came faster, and his hands began to lose their form. His carefully made purée, over-worked, turned gluey and lost its airy texture. He was furious. He couldn't accept it.

He didn't understand why his meticulously designed work, fusing modern culinary ideas, could lose to a gratin that looked so… domestic. He glared viciously at Chris, his eyes full of jealousy and venom. And Chris, from start to finish, never once looked at him. The cheese in the oven had melted and begun to bubble, the surface slowly taking on a layer of gold. Rich cream, butter, garlic, the aroma of the potato — all mingled, like an invisible hand closing around the throat of the whole soundstage.

Everyone held their breath. They knew the dish carrying so many stories was about to come out of the oven.