The Last Dessert Chef

VerinMist was halfway through his latest livestream.

On-screen, he was swirling a glass of nutrient solution—flavor No. 917-Ω, labeled "Frosted Vanilla." He wore a clean, pale lavender vest and his hair was immaculately styled. A warm artificial lighting filter added a soft glow to his cheeks as he smiled at the camera.

"Now this one," he said, "has a cool mouthfeel. Very fresh. Not quite icy, but definitely refreshing. Imagine chewing on a sweet-scented microfiber towel—light and bright."

His chat scrolled with colored hearts and cheering emotes.

[NutrientBabie]: So poetic as always!!

[MilkQueen22]: Verin's palate is unmatched!

[StarSipQueen]: VERIN 4EVER!!

But then the tone shifted.

[SpoonfulJoy]: Honestly this reminds me of that pudding from the new guy's stream... it was so nostalgic T_T

[PineappleDrop]: Y'all tried the milk pudding stream yet?? I can still taste it.

[ViewerK0]: That dessert anchor? OMG. It felt like heaven.

[MilkIsMid]: Lowkey, real milk pudding beats this…

VerinMist's expression didn't crack.

But his smile grew thinner.

"…Interesting." He sipped again, though he no longer tasted it. "There's a lot of… buzz around sweets lately, huh?"

He clicked a few invisible commands on his interface and discreetly pulled up the source of the chatter.

AvrilLive_001

"Sweet things still exist – Milk Pudding Livestream (Replay)"

4,082 views. 1500+ likes. 2 Galaxy Stars.

A no-name.

Low-tier station. Border planet. Low bitrate stream.

But the comments. The engagement. The sheer rate of replays climbing per hour—

Something was wrong.

He stared as the screen flashed to Avril's soft-toned opening, the warm kitchen lighting, and a gentle voice:

"I'm Avril—and today, I'll be making something sweet."

And that damned cat.

His jaw tightened.

This was his territory.

For years, VerinMist dominated the sensory livestream market—especially in food content. Even if it was only nutrient solutions, he was the standard. Anyone trying to carve a similar path was simply swallowed or buried by "coincidental" mass reports and compliance flags.

It wasn't personal.

It was survival.

So, he put on a new smile and turned back to his fans.

"Support new anchors 🌸 But remember to always follow community guidelines. Sensory manipulation is a serious issue. Stay safe, everyone 💕 #responsibility #protecttheplatform"

And just like that, the comments exploded.

[NutrientBabie]: VERIN IS SO KIND!! That pudding dude is sus af.

[StarSipQueen]: I knew it was too good to be true… bet he's using an illegal stim amp!

[VerinLoyal]: Mass report the account: @avril.cook. He's not even verified!

He didn't even need to ask.

They did the dirty work for him.

---

Meanwhile, on T-397 Beta…

A soft chime echoed from Avril's terminal.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the distant bubbling of broth on the stove. Orange sprawled lazily across the window ledge, sun warming his fur.

Avril dried his hands and read the notification.

"Your content has been reported for Sensory Misuse. Temporary Suspension in effect. Pending Review."

He stared at it for a long second, then simply exhaled.

"…Fast," he murmured, unbothered.

Orange yawned, completely unbothered. The cat had seen worse mornings.

Avril set the towel aside, sat down at the corner of the table, and opened the detailed logs. Page after page of identical reports—unverified neural sync, unsafe stim patterns, false ingredient tagging. All bogus.

And all sent within the same 30-minute window.

"…They're really predictable," he said, brows faintly raised.

Back when he was Capri, things were worse.

There were critics who mocked his obsession with old-fashioned desserts. Customers who scoffed at his prices because he refused to cut corners with cheap ingredients. Landlords who hiked up his rent the moment business picked up. Rival bakeries that opened just across the street, luring customers with flashy gimmicks while whispering rumors about his hygiene.

One time, a competitor even bribed one of his part-time staff to sabotage a wedding order.

This was a paper tiger.

He calmly filed a counter-report, attaching stream logs, ingredient receipts, neural stim calibration proofs, and a full sensory trace file. Pineapple Platform's backend AI would clear it—eventually.

"Appeal Pending. Expect 24–48 hours for a verdict."

"Alright," Avril said to himself, standing. "Time to use that downtime."

Instead of stewing over the situation, Avril wandered to the backyard.

The tiny garden behind the house—modest rows of sprouting vegetables—was still in its infancy, but signs of life had begun to peek through the soil. Pale green shoots of spring onions stretched upward, shy leaves of spinach unfurled like curled fingers, and a patch of baby carrots pushed against the earth with stubborn resolve. A few stalks of bok choy swayed gently with the breeze, their soft white bases nestled in the dirt like sleeping bulbs.

It wasn't much—but it was his.

Avril knelt down, brushing his fingers against a cucumber sprout as if coaxing it to grow faster. The soil was dry from the morning sun, so he fetched the old watering can and moved row by row, giving each plant a careful drink. His gaze sharpened every now and then, checking for pests or signs of yellowing. Even in this corner of forgotten farmland, his standards hadn't dulled.

He watered each one gently, checking every leaf with a careful touch, brushing away the dry soil clinging to the edges of the stems. It was quiet work, the kind that required nothing but patience. And patience was something Avril had honed like a blade.

When he returned inside, the air still carried the soft, bitter tang of rejection—platform restrictions, smear campaigns, automated suspicion—but he didn't pay it much attention.

He tied on a linen apron, rolled up his sleeves, and reached for a large mixing bowl.

Something warm, he decided. Something familiar.

Milk bread.

He hadn't made it in years, but the steps returned to his hands before they even touched the flour.

He hadn't made it in years, but the steps returned to his hands before they even touched the flour.

Flour first. He sifted it into the bowl like falling snow—fine, clean, and smooth. Then sugar, just enough to lend a kiss of sweetness, followed by salt, sprinkled on the opposite side to keep it from killing the yeast. He worked like a man used to silence, the only sound the steady rustle of ingredients and the dull clinks of ceramic bowls against the counter.

"Soft rolls," he murmured to himself, measuring warm milk in a copper cup. "Simple, nostalgic… if they've forgotten what bread even is, let's start here."

He cracked an egg into the milk, whisking it gently. The golden yolk swirled into a rich cream.

He poured the wet mixture into the flour and began stirring, slowly, steadily, watching it come together. Sticky at first, the dough clung to the wooden spoon like a stubborn child. He set the spoon aside and plunged his hands in.

Press. Fold. Turn.

The table creaked faintly as he kneaded, working the mixture with practiced rhythm. The dough grew more obedient under his palms, smoothing out with each motion until it began to breathe, rising slightly with every pull.

Once the gluten developed, he added softened butter—folding it in, bit by bit, until the dough absorbed it entirely, turning glossy and supple beneath his fingers.

He paused and lifted a small stretch between his thumbs. It thinned into a translucent veil before tearing. The windowpane test had passed.

Avril gave a soft hum of approval, placed the dough into a clean bowl, and covered it with a warm cloth.

As it proofed, he prepared subtle variations.

From the garden, he clipped fresh rosemary and steeped it in a splash of oil. He retrieved the last jar of sun-dried tomatoes from the cupboard, slicing them into tiny ruby cubes. Cracked black pepper went into a bowl beside them.

For the rest—no extra flavors. Just the original soft milk roll, delicate and sweet. He thought of elderly villagers, children, and neighbors who hadn't tasted real bread in years—if ever.

Once the dough doubled, he returned to it with gentle hands, punching it down just enough to release the gas. The dough was warm and pillowy—perfect. He divided it into equal parts, shaping each into a neat round, tucking the seams underneath like folding in a secret.

He arranged them on a parchment-lined tray, brushing each one with an egg-milk wash. The sheen shimmered under the dim light.

Toppings were simple.

A dab of rosemary oil for one row. A sprinkle of tomato and cracked pepper for another. The last row remained bare, dusted with a whisper of flour.

The oven had no smart sensors or temperature AI. Just an old, slow-heating core and a manual dial. He set it by instinct, not numbers—180°C, give or take—and watched the dough rise into golden domes, their soft crust splitting slightly on top in perfect bloom.

The smell filled the room—yeast, sugar, salt, and heat.

And memories.

When the timer rang, he opened the door and pulled them out. The crusts shone like glazed porcelain, and a single press released steam and the soft sigh of a fluffy interior.

He cooled them only slightly before gently wrapping them in parchment and twine. Each small box held three rolls—one of each kind—and a hand-written label on top:

Free Sample – Let me know if you'd buy this next week?

The ink was still slightly wet as he tied the final string. His hands moved with the same care he gave delicate mousse or tempered chocolate. He lined the boxes neatly in a wicker basket, then slung it over his shoulder and stepped out the front door.

The sun was still high above the fields, the dirt path dry and cracked. Wind swept through the village in lazy strokes. Here and there, children ran barefoot, and the scent of old metal and fertilizer lingered in the breeze.

A few villagers looked up in mild surprise as he passed—basket full, sleeves dusted with flour, expression serene.

Avril smiled gently and began his rounds.