The rhythmic clatter of knives and the sizzling harmony of oil meeting steel filled the air in Tōtsuki's practice kitchen as the second week of the training arc began. For most students, the intensity was escalating; the instructors weren't holding back anymore. The exercises were no longer just about replicating classic dishes—they were now designed to push each student's creativity to its limit. But for Riku Kaizen, the pressure didn't feel overwhelming. If anything, it felt like home.
He stood over his station, brows furrowed, lips tight in concentration, as he reduced a red wine demi-glace to the perfect texture. His hands moved swiftly yet gracefully, as though each motion was in tune with some unseen melody, a rhythm only he could hear. The sauce was meant to pair with a seared venison loin, a protein that left no room for error. A second too long on the heat, and it would turn rubbery; undercook it, and the gamey aftertaste would ruin everything.
Riku didn't need anyone to tell him this. He already knew. He felt it in the way the venison resisted his blade when raw, the faint metallic scent that hinted at how lean it was. As he seared the meat, he tilted the pan slightly, using a spoon to baste it in foamy herb butter, each pass painting it with layers of flavor. It was artistry forged through instinct and patience, not showmanship.
Across the kitchen, Erina Nakiri observed him from the corner of her eye. Though she pretended to be absorbed in her own dish—a delicate lobster medallion poached in champagne beurre blanc—her attention frequently drifted. It wasn't that she didn't trust her own hands, but rather that Riku had become an anomaly she couldn't ignore. There was something in the way he worked: devoid of arrogance, yet undeniably confident. Every movement he made seemed purposeful, elegant even, like his dishes whispered secrets only he could understand.
And lately, she found herself wanting to be let in on those secrets.
Their relationship, if it could yet be called that, had evolved since the Moon Banquet assignment. No longer just rivals or classmates, they were spending more time together—be it critiquing each other's food, debating over technique, or sharing brief, meaningful glances in the hallway. Riku's presence had wormed its way into her life like a slow-burning ember, warm and persistent, never demanding attention but impossible to ignore.
"Chef Kaizen, you're next," called Chef Inui, the judge for today's exercise.
Riku plated his dish with meticulous care. The venison rested atop a bed of caramelized celeriac puree, flanked by roasted baby carrots, glazed shallots, and a generous drizzle of his demi-glace. A sprig of rosemary stood like a crown atop the protein, subtle yet striking.
He carried his dish to the front with quiet confidence, placing it before Chef Inui without a word. The instructor, known for her brutal honesty and lack of theatrical flair, studied it for a moment before cutting into the meat. She took a bite, closed her eyes briefly, then opened them with a rare nod of approval.
"This is… exceptional," she said, her voice even but tinged with genuine surprise "Balanced. Earthy. You tamed the venison's natural bite while enhancing its richness. You used restraint where others would've overcomplicated. Very few students understand that less is sometimes more."
Riku didn't smile, but the fire in his eyes burned a little brighter "Thank you, Chef."
As he returned to his station, a few students exchanged murmurs behind their hands. It was becoming a pattern: Riku Kaizen delivering consistently top-tier results, yet never basking in the spotlight. Some admired him. Others were starting to feel threatened.
Later that evening, Riku stepped outside the dorms for some air, finding solace in the courtyard garden. The soft chirping of crickets and the faint rustle of wind through the trees provided a peaceful counterpoint to the day's intense atmosphere.
He was halfway through tying his hair back when he heard approaching footsteps—light and deliberate. He turned and found Erina standing at the edge of the pathway, arms crossed, eyes gleaming under the silver moonlight.
"You're not bad, Kaizen," she said, her tone laced with that familiar Nakiri aloofness "Inui-sensei rarely praises anyone unless they're worth their salt."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Riku replied with a small grin.
Erina stepped closer, her posture relaxing slightly "You made demi-glace taste… comforting. That's not easy. Most people either go too rich or too thin. Yours was… balanced."
Riku nodded "I figured it needed to echo the venison. Grounded. Slightly wild. But not overpowering."
There was a pause between them, filled with the soft breeze and an unspoken curiosity. Erina looked up at him, her expression a mixture of thoughtfulness and something else—something warmer.
"You don't cook like the rest of us," she said "You don't show off. You don't try to prove a point. You just… express."
"That's the idea," Riku said, his voice low "I'm not cooking to impress anyone. I'm cooking to understand. To find meaning."
A small silence fell again, but this time it wasn't awkward—it was intimate.
"Do you always cook for yourself, Riku?" she asked, dropping the formality of his surname for the first time.
Riku blinked, surprised not by the question, but by how gently it was asked "Not anymore," he said, his eyes meeting hers.
Erina's breath caught for just a second, then she looked away, her cheeks tinged with pink "I suppose… that's admirable."
Before he could respond, she stepped beside him, her gaze lifted to the sky "Do you ever wonder what comes next?" she murmured "After Tōtsuki? After all the battles and shokugeki and pressure?"
"I used to," Riku replied "But now… I think it depends on who's beside you when you get there."
That did it. Erina turned her head, searching his face for any sign of mockery or jest, but there was none. Just quiet sincerity.
"Riku Kaizen," she whispered "You're an infuriating person to figure out."
He smiled "Wouldn't be any fun if I were simple."
Erina laughed softly, a rare sound that felt like music under the stars "You're lucky your food speaks for you."
And with that, they stood there, side by side, not needing to say anything else. The garden around them buzzed with life, but in that moment, all they could hear was the steady rhythm of their own hearts, beating in quiet sync.
The fire between them hadn't erupted—it had simmered, slow and persistent. But maybe, just maybe, it was about to burn brighter than either of them expected.