Chapter 2, Episode 2“The Smell of Burning”

I woke up at thirty-one with pain in my hands.

My fingers felt stiff.

When I curled them, there was resistance—like something inside didn’t want to move.

Too early.

This wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

At the restaurant, the rush came as usual.

Orders stacked up.

Three pans at once.  
Sauce, meat, garnish.

I moved.

But something was off.

Again.

I flipped the chicken—

Too late.

The skin burned slightly.

Just a little.

But I smelled it immediately.

That bitter, sharp scent.

Burnt.

“Too slow,” the owner said.

“I know.”

My jaw tightened.

I knew exactly what went wrong.

My timing was perfect in my head.

But my body reacted half a second too late.

That gap—

That tiny delay—

Was everything.

After service, the owner called me aside.

“You’re slipping.”

“I won’t.”

“Then prove it.”

His tone wasn’t angry. Just direct.

That made it worse.

I wasn’t losing skill.

If anything, I understood cooking better than ever.

But my body—

My body was aging faster than my experience could stabilize.

On my way out, she was there.

Waiting.

“You burned something today.”

I froze.

“…Yeah.”

“You’re rushing.”

“I don’t have time not to.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

She tilted her head.

“Time for what?”

I exhaled slowly.

“For everything.”

She studied me for a moment.

Then she said:

“Then speed up your dream.”

I frowned. “What?”

“If time is accelerating, then you accelerate too.”

Simple.

Too simple.

But it hit harder than anything else.

“You want your own restaurant, right?”

I nodded.

“Then stop thinking ‘someday.’ Think ‘now.’”

That night, after closing, I stayed in the kitchen alone.

I pulled out a notebook.

Numbers.

Costs. Rent. Equipment.

Reality.

It was impossible.

At least, for a normal person.

But I wasn’t normal.

I didn’t have years to prepare.

I had days. Maybe weeks.

Midnight came.

This time, I didn’t cook.

I needed to test it.

00:00.

The impact hit harder than ever.

I collapsed to the floor.

My breath stopped for a moment.

My body felt cold from the inside out.

When I finally stood and looked—

Thirty-four.

“…Three years.”

No cooking meant faster aging.

That confirmed it.

Cooking wasn’t just important.

It was survival.

I picked up my phone.

Opened a real estate site.

Typed:

“Small restaurant space.”

Pressed search.

I wasn’t waiting anymore.