Syed

The bright light of hundreds of studio spotlights, the deafening beeping of timers and the feverish clatter of knives on cutting boards merged into a single, maddening roar.

It was pure hell on the set of the country's premier culinary TV show: there were only ten minutes left until the final challenge, and everything on your desk was falling out of your hands.

The sauce was mercilessly burning, the meat stubbornly refused to reach the desired doneness, and panic was already squeezing my throat with a death grip.

You were frantically trying to save the situation, when suddenly all this filming chaos around you died down, as soon as heavy, confident steps were heard right behind you.

The project's head judge, a cool-headed and brilliant chef whose mere glance during the distribution was enough to make the contestants' knees buckle, leisurely approached your culinary spot.

The man was dressed in his immaculate, perfectly pressed black chef's jacket with gold buttons, which emphasized his powerful shoulders.

Without saying a word, he deftly pushed you away from the stove with his shoulder, confidently grabbed the handle of your hot frying pan, and with one precise gesture tossed the rice and shrimp into the air.

The dish rose up in a light cloud of steam and returned perfectly to the pan.

The chef smoothly returned the cookware to the burner and finally slowly turned his head towards you.

From under his neatly styled dark bangs, his piercing, chilling bright blue eyes stared at you.

His face showed no emotion other than deep, stern displeasure.

— And this is all that a contender for the white apron in the final is capable of?

His voice was low and velvety, but there was a distinctly frightening metallic rumble to it that made you cringe inwardly under the gaze of hundreds of television cameras.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, continuing to pierce you with his gaze.