Kairo stood outside Salt & Smoke, his food stall a stubborn scar on the city's battered skin. The shutters groaned as he unlocked them, metal biting his calloused fingers. At twenty-three, he'd learned the rhythm of survival: steal, hustle, work, repeat. But the System had rewritten the score, and now his pulse thrummed with something sharper. Hunger. Not for food, but for more.
The System flickered in his vision, a ghost only he could see, its voice dry as burnt garlic.
[Mission Progress: €937.50 of €1000 weekly revenue achieved. 93% complete. Push harder, Operator.]
Kairo's jaw tightened. Less than a hundred euros to go, and the docks were buzzing. Dockworkers, ferry guards, even a priest with a crooked collar had come yesterday, drawn by the myth of "the chef who gives it away."
He wiped the counter with his sleeve, the wood still warm from yesterday's grill. The Farmland Realm's crates sat in the back, heavy with tomatoes that tasted like sunlight, eggs richer than anything in Vomero's markets. The System's gift was his edge. Nobody questioned the produce; it looked like any other, just better in the mouth, stronger in the gut.
By 7:45 AM, the first customers trickled in. A dockworker, face like cracked leather, ordered a grilled tomato flatbread, chili oil dripping like blood. Kairo's hands moved on instinct, guiding the knife through fennel with a surgeon's precision. The System whispered: Optimal heat: 180°C. Basil at 30 seconds for aroma. He obeyed, and the air bloomed with hunger. Perception caught the dockworker's nod, the flicker of awe in his eyes. Another convert.
By 9:00, the line was twelve deep. Fishermen, mechanics, a kid with mismatched sneakers who lingered but didn't buy. Kairo slid him an egg tart, free, like yesterday. The kid's eyes widened, hungry, wary, then he vanished into the crowd. Kairo didn't chase names. He chased momentum. The System pinged:
[Revenue: €1110. 100% complete.
Reputation Tier 2: Rising Firebrand.]
He snorted. Firebrand. Sounded like something Naples would chew up and spit out.
At 10:23, the first cough came.
A woman, mid-30s, sharp suit, tired eyes, the one who'd nearly choked yesterday, doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her flatbread hit the cobblestones, half-eaten, chili oil pooling like a wound. The crowd froze, murmurs rippling. Then another ferry guard, burly, graying, swayed, retching into a crate. A third, a mechanic with oil-stained hands, stumbled back, face pale, muttering about dizziness. Kairo's Perception flared, catching the panic, the way eyes darted to his stall.
The System cut in:
[New Mission: Identify the source of the illness affecting Salt & Smoke customers. Reward: +2 Skill Points, $5,000.
Penalty: 50% Farmland Realm output loss for 7 days. Time Limit: 48 hours.]
Kairo's gut twisted. The Farmland Realm was his lifeline: tomatoes, eggs, fennel, all untouched by Naples' rot. Halve that, and Salt & Smoke was just another stall; he was just another slum kid with a dream too big for his bones. He scanned the crowd, Intellect (8) piecing it together. Not the Realm's produce, its taste and nutrition were flawless, indistinguishable in look. Something else. Someone.
Santo Russo's shadow fell across the counter. The seafood vendor, mid-40s, burn scar snaking up his neck, leaned in, his apron smelling of fish and grease. "Flavors this good draw eyes, De Luca," he said, voice low, not accusing but sharp. "Crowds bring trouble." Kairo met his gaze, Charisma keeping his tone steady. "Trouble's always been here, Santo. Just changed its face." Santo's lips twitched, not a smile, just a flicker. He didn't push, but his words lingered like smoke. Underworld knowledge, not enforcement. Santo knew Naples' shadows, and he knew who pulled strings.
Kairo's mind raced. Il Ponte. Those brown-shirted watchdogs, always lurking, had been sniffing since yesterday. The choking woman, saved by his quick hands, had started the legend, but legends drew knives. He remembered Abele, the old tavern cook, his voice rough from years of shouting over flames: "When the crowd loves you, kid, someone's always waiting to burn it down." Kairo's hands stilled on the grill. Il Ponte didn't need to know about the System to smell a threat. His rise was too fast, too loud.
By noon, Salt & Smoke was a furnace, the air thick with garlic and panic. Kairo served twenty orders, his hands a blur, but the crowd thinned, whispers of "tainted food" spreading like oil. Today's revenue stalled at €350. The System's timer ticked: 47 hours left. He needed answers, not guesses.
Milo slipped through the docks like a shadow, wiry, 24, eyes sharp as the knives he carried. Kairo's childhood friend, a slum kid turned hacker, all cynicism and quick fingers. They'd split stolen bread as teens, Kairo reading the streets, Milo cracking cheap locks. Now Milo cracked the code, his laptop a weapon. Kairo waved him over, the crowd parting for his friend's jittery stride.
"Three sick, Milo," Kairo muttered, flipping a flatbread. "Not my food. Someone's playing dirty." Milo's eyes narrowed, scanning the stalls. "Il Ponte?" he asked, voice low. Kairo nodded, Perception catching the brown-shirted agents across the dock, watching like vultures. Milo pulled his hood up, fingers twitching. "Gimme two hours. I'll dig."
The System pinged:
[Secondary Objective: Leverage ally to uncover Il Ponte's actions.
Reward: +1 Trust Point with Milo.]
Kairo snorted. Trust points. The System played games like a street hustler, dangling carrots that it barely explained. But Milo was solid, System or not. Kairo slid him a lemon roll, free, a nod to old times. Milo grinned, already typing on a battered phone.
By 2:00 PM, the sun burned through the smog, and Salt & Smoke limped along. Kairo served ten more, pushing revenue to €380. The dockworker, grizzled and loyal, came back, unfazed by the rumors. "Best damn tart I ever had," he grunted, tossing €5 on the counter. Kairo's lips twitched. The System noted: [Reputation reinforced: The Chef Who Gives It Away.]
But the illness hung like a noose. Two more customers coughed, one spitting into the gutter. Kairo's Intellect churned. Not the Realm's produce—too perfect, too clean. Il Ponte was spiking something, but what?
Milo returned at 4:00, eyes bloodshot, voice clipped. "Dockside supplier, three blocks west. Il Ponte's got them on a leash. Tainted oil, maybe vinegar. Slipped into your supply chain." Kairo's fist clenched. Not his crates—those came straight from the Realm, sealed by the System's magic. But the market where he bought extra chili oil, bottles for citrus tea—that was vulnerable. Il Ponte didn't need to touch his stall to poison his name.
Kairo traced the menu: flatbreads, tarts, teas. The sick ones had ordered flatbreads, all with chili oil. He cursed under his breath. The System hummed:
[Objective Progress: Source identified as tainted chili oil from Il Ponte-controlled supplier. Confirm and neutralize within 44 hours.]
Neutralize. The word sat heavy, like a blade he wasn't ready to wield. Underworld games weren't new, but this was personal. Il Ponte wanted Salt & Smoke to choke.
He worked through dusk, the grill hissing, the crowd wary but still coming. €410 by 6:00 PM. The revenue mission was completed, but the illness mission's timer ticked. Kairo's mind spun, his "Silver Curse" a bitter laugh in his head. Silver, not Gold. A System too cheap to hand him answers, just tools. Fine. He'd carve his own.
Santo passed by again, his cart rattling, fish frying in the evening haze. "Heard about your trouble," he said, eyes on the crowd, not Kairo. "Il Ponte doesn't like new blood. Watch your step." No threat, no offer—just a fact, delivered like a weather report. Santo's knowledge was a map Kairo couldn't read yet, but he filed it away. Neutral or not, Santo saw the strings.
Milo lingered, hacking on his phone, tracing the supplier's deliveries. "They're sloppy," he muttered. "Invoices show they hit three stalls, not just you. Covering tracks." Kairo nodded, Charisma smoothing his voice. "Find me a name, Milo. Someone I can lean on." Milo's grin was sharp. "On it."
The System pinged: [Trust Point gained: Milo. Objective Progress: 80%.] Kairo ignored it, his eyes on the docks, where the brown-shirted agents stood, still watching. The crowd thinned as night fell, the air heavy with salt and suspicion. Kairo grilled one last flatbread, the scent of fennel cutting through the smog. He'd find the supplier and burn Il Ponte's scheme. The System didn't own him—it just lit the path.
As he locked the shutters, a glint caught his eye. On the counter, under a crate, sat a silver coin, etched with a bridge. Il Ponte's mark. No note, no threat, just a message colder than the Naples night. They were watching. And they weren't done.
[Mission Timer: 43 hours. Revenue: €1347. The game is heating up, Operator.]