The sky was pale with morning light as Max stood in front of the stove, sleeves rolled, eyes focused.
The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee. A carton of eggs, a small sack of flour, a pack of bacon, and a few blocks of cheddar cheese sat neatly on the counter beside him. He'd used what little savings he had to buy just enough ingredients for twenty breakfast orders.
No banners. No promotions. Just a handwritten sign on the window:
**"NOW OPEN – BREAKFAST SPECIALS – \$5"**
It was all he could afford—for now.
The stove clicked, then flared to life. Max poured the batter he'd mixed with careful precision onto the hot pan. The sizzle was soft, almost soothing.
As he flipped the first pancake, he caught himself smiling.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't grand.
But it was cooking.
And he'd missed that more than he could ever admit.
---
He moved smoothly between the stove and the prep station. The recipes from the system were clear in his mind—not because he'd memorized them, but because they felt like instincts. Every motion was natural, practiced, fluid.
When he sliced the herbs for the eggs, the knife felt like an extension of his hand. When he pressed the sandwich onto the grill, he already knew how long to wait for the perfect golden crust.
Still, his stomach twisted with nerves.
He glanced at the empty dining room through the small service window.
"What if no one shows up?" he whispered.
The room was spotless. Chairs neatly arranged. Coffee already brewed. He'd even lit a small candle near the window just to make it feel less… dead.
But fear lingered in his chest.
---
By 7:25 AM, his hands had started to sweat.
Then, at 7:31, the front door opened.
A middle-aged woman in scrubs walked in, holding her phone and looking half-awake.
Max stood at the counter, heart pounding. "Good morning."
She blinked. "You guys open?"
"We are. Breakfast specials—five bucks, coffee included."
She hesitated. Looked around. Then smiled slightly. "I'll take the... bacon sandwich. Coffee, too. To go."
"One moment."
He moved without thinking—bread, bacon, cheese, hot pan, pressed, flipped. Every second felt like a test. He wiped the edges of the paper wrap. Placed the sandwich in a to-go bag. Poured black coffee into a disposable cup. No mistakes.
"That'll be five even," he said.
She handed over a crumpled bill and a quarter. "Keep the change."
As she took the bag, she paused. "Smells amazing."
Max's breath caught.
"Thanks," he said softly. "Have a great day."
The door closed behind her.
---
The room was quiet again—but Max felt different.
He opened the system screen.
\
\
\
\
Just five points.
Just one sandwich.
But it was real.
He had sold something.
---
By 8:45, five more customers had come in.
A man in a suit took pancakes and sat near the window. Two high school kids ordered scrambled eggs and bacon sandwiches and shared them, laughing at something on their phones. An older couple came in, just curious, and ended up buying coffee and eggs.
Max moved through it all with laser focus. He barely noticed the pain in his back or the heat from the stove. His hands moved on instinct.
But inside… he was shaking.
Every time someone took a bite, he held his breath.
Every "Mmm," every "This is good," felt like a balm to his cracked pride.
He didn't say much. Just nodded. Cleaned. Cooked. Focused.
---
At 10:15 AM, there were no more customers.
Max stood behind the counter, wiping it down slowly. His shirt was damp with sweat. His legs ached.
He looked at the floating screen.
\
\
He smiled. Not because of the money.
Because it felt like purpose.
---
He poured himself a small cup of coffee and sat by the window.
Sunlight streamed through the glass, warming the wooden floor. Outside, people walked by. Some glanced at the sign. Some didn't.
Max took a slow sip and looked around the empty restaurant.
"This place has a long way to go," he murmured. "I'm one guy. One stove. No help. No brand. No buzz."
He stared at the coffee in his hand.
"But I'm not doing this just to survive anymore."
He looked up at the ceiling, jaw tight.
"I'm going to rise again. Not just open a restaurant. Not just make a living. I want to build something that no one can take away. A legacy. My own food empire."
---
Max stared at the screen as it faded slowly.
He hadn't spoken that last part out loud. But the system… it heard him.
---
That evening, he returned home and opened his fridge.
Empty again.
But he didn't care.
He pulled up the system interface. His heart beat faster.
He didn't have enough. Not yet.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he would.
--