CHAPTER 1
mei
I’m down to my last seventy-three credits, and the smell of failure clings to me stronger than the ghost of chili oil on my fingers. The neon lights of New Vegas blur around me, a million shades of electric promise that mock my empty pockets.
Last week, I was Chef Mei Tan, The Noodle Queen, slinging bowls of transcendent broth to lines stretching out of the casino. Now? I’m just another broke dreamer with outstanding invoices and a talent for ruining perfectly good business opportunities.
At least I still have my taste buds. And my knife roll. A girl’s gotta hold on to something when her world is circling the drain.
New Vegas at sunset is a fever dream of sensory overload. The Strip stretches before me like a dragon with scales made of LED billboards, holographic showgirls fifty feet tall blowing kisses to the crowds below. Pleasure domes and gambling temples rise on either side, their architecture a chaotic blend of Earth’s ancient wonders and alien geometries. The air tastes like synthetic cherry, cigarette smoke, and desperation.
Gods, I miss the smell of my kitchen.
A wulver in a dealer’s vest howls past me, late for his shift. A group of college-aged elves in matching “BRIDAL COVEN”t-shirts giggle as they pass, already three potions deep into their night. Everyone here is chasing something—love, money, oblivion, or just the next high.
Me? I was chasing culinary fame beyond my social media success. Hilarious how that worked out.
My stomach growls as I pass a street vendor selling synthetic dragon meat skewers. The scent is all wrong—too much artificial smoke flavor, not enough heat. I could make it better with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. But right now, I can’t even afford to buy one sad, mediocre skewer, let alone create one correctly.
I dodge a trio of centaurs clomping down the street.
Should’ve stuck to making content. Bowl Goals had two million followers. The algorithm loved me. But no, I had to chase the dream of a real restaurant.
What I’d done instead was sink every credit I had into “Noodz,” my pop-up kitchen concept. A week-long residency in the food court of the Pharaoh’s Palace Casino. Rare, premium ingredients sourced from the other side of the Rift. Custom-made ceramics for each bowl. A broth so good it made a vampire weep actual tears—and they rarely have enough bodily fluid for that.
The first two nights were magical. Lines formed an hour before opening. My face was on the digital billboards along the Strip. Critics came. Food-holo influencers livestreamed. I was riding so high that I ordered twice as many ingredients for the remaining nights.
Then the air filtration system in the entire east wing of the Pharaoh’s Palace failed. Some kind of enchantment backfired in the VIP suites. The casino shut down for three days of magical contamination cleanup. My ingredients rotted. My ceramics got “misplaced” during the evacuation. My insurance claim wasdenied because apparently “arcane system failure” was listed in microscopic print under exclusions.
Everything I’d pivoted my life toward crumbled into nothing in the span of a week.
And now here I am. Totally fucked.
“Mei Tan!” A voice like gravel through a wood chipper interrupts my pity parade. “Thought you could skip town without settling up?”
Correction. Now I’mreallyfucked.
I freeze mid-step. Vex. My least favorite debt collector and, unfortunately, a goblin who knows his way around a contract’s fine print.
He’s leaning against a lamppost with the easy confidence of someone who has never once needed to rush. Lean and sharp-featured in a shimmering purple suit that costs more than my culinary school tuition, he blocks my path. The gold cufflinks catch the neon light as he straightens.
“Hey, Vex. Looking dapper as always.” I force my lips into something resembling a smile. “The sunset really brings out the gold in your eyes.”
“Cut the shit.” He adjusts those cufflinks, a gesture that probably looks casual to him but only solidifies his whole slimy mobster persona. “You owe Crimson Financing over two hundred thousand credits, with at least five thousand due”—he looks at his gaudy watch for dramatic effect—“in about twelve hours.”
I swallow hard. “I’m good for it. Just need a few days to?—”
“You said that three days ago when the boss graciously gave you an extension.” His pointed teeth gleam in the neon light. “And yet, here you are, skulking around the Strip instead of, I don’t know, earning money to pay back what you owe.”
“I’m not skulking. I’m strategically scoping out prime real estate. You know what they say—location, location, location.”
His gaze sharpens to a honed blade’s edge, and his voice is just as flinty. “With your knife roll and a backpack? Looks like fleeing to me.”
A small crowd has formed around us, sensing drama. Nothing entertains the Vegas crowd like someone else’s misfortune. Great. Public humiliation. The perfect garnish on my shit sandwich of a week.
“Listen, I’ve got some promising leads.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “Give me till first thing Monday, and I’ll have your first payment.”
Vex’s laugh is like glass breaking. “The boss isn’t looking for any more extensions. But he could have other arrangements for you.”
