Chapter 2
tovek
I didn’t plan on throwing a troll through a neon sign tonight, but the moment I spotted Mei Tan—the actual Mei fucking Tan—being cornered by that sleazy goblin debt collector, something primal took over.
The moment she mentioned she was broke, something clicked. The bar needs something the Sunrise can’t match, and having the chef whose videos have kept me from burning down my apartment on lonely nights feels like the universe throwing me a line.
Now I just have to convince her that a dive bar with a half-lit sign and an unused kitchen is worth her time.
I need to calm down so I don’t sound desperate, but my brain won’t stop replaying the way she looked at me with wide-eyed wonder after I threw that troll into the neon sign.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking and the closest I’ll ever get to her is standing four feet away while she critiques my bastardization of her cumin lamb noodle recipe that I left simmering for dinner.
Still. It’s more than I ever thought possible when I was watching her Bowl Goals videos at 2 AM, taking notes on how to fold dumplings without tearing the wrappers.
“You sure about this?” she asks, adjusting the backpack she’s had clutched to her chest since we started walking. “I don’t want to take up your night.”
I’m about three steps ahead, half-turning to talk to her.
“The kitchen isn’t going anywhere. And if you’re moving in.
..” The words catch in my throat. I’d meant it as a practical offer.
Her situation seemed dire, and I have the spare room.
But somehow it came out sounding like I’m already planning where to put her toothbrush.
“I mean, if you need somewhere to stay while we figure out the kitchen thing, you’re welcome to use it. ”
Mei snorts. “My choices are the spare room or continuing my tour of Vegas’ least picturesque alleys. I’ll take the room.”
She doesn’t seem put off by the idea, which is something.
Gods, I’ve watched her videos so many times I’ve committed every frame to memory.
I know her coffee order is black with three sugars.
I learned to use chopsticks specifically because of the way she looked at the camera with that raised eyebrow when people commented about eating her food with a fork.
I’ve tried every recipe she’s ever posted, some dozens of times, adjusting and refining until my kitchen smelled like I’d captured lightning in a bottle.
And I’ve never, ever told anyone about it.
It’s not just the embarrassment, though there’s plenty of that.
It’s that keeping that little secret is one of the only things that’s kept me sane while watching the bar bleed customers day after day.
The Sunrise Casino opened six months ago, and it’s been stealing my regulars in slow motion ever since.
They’ve got those sleek, modern cocktails with ingredients from four planets, servers in custom outfits with those illusion-woven name tags, and a view of the Strip that makes you feel like you’re floating above it all.
Meanwhile, The Drunken Dragon has Greta’s collection of novelty glassware, the lingering smell of last week’s spilled beer, and a jukebox that only plays songs from the 2050s because the license fee for anything newer was too rich for my blood.
We turn the corner onto Shifter Street, and I watch Mei’s face as she takes in the block. It’s not the worst part of town. The were-brothels are three streets over. But it’s definitely seen better days.
The streetlights are the old-fashioned kind, casting pools of warm yellow light that barely hold back the shadows between them.
A trio of vampires are passing a bottle outside the blood bar two doors down, and a guy with horns that spiral six inches above his head is sleeping it off against a fire hydrant.
“That’s us,” I say, pointing to the building with the flickering sign. The Drunken Dragon. Currently reading “The Drunken ragon” because the D has been on the fritz for three weeks.
Mei tilts her head. “Has the dragon always been missing half his scales?”
“He’s drunk,” I explain, pushing open the door. “It’s thematic.”
The inside of The Drunken Dragon is what I like to think of as “honest” rather than “shabby.” Exposed brick walls that have seen better days but still have character.
A bar top made from a single slab of reclaimed timber from an old growth forest. Mismatched chairs and stools that I’ve collected one by one from closing businesses across the city.
In the corner, there’s a collection of antique arcade games, the kind that run on actual coins instead of credits, that have become something of an attraction for the locals.
Greta’s behind the bar, polishing a glass with more vigor than it probably requires.
Her steel-gray bob is tucked behind her pointed ears, and her expression is somewhere between skeptical and unimpressed, which is her resting state.
She’s been running this place since before I bought it.
Knows the regulars, knows the stock, knows exactly how much ice to put in each drink.
And she’s currently staring at Mei with the particular focus that means she’s putting together puzzle pieces in her head.
“You’re back early,” she says, not taking her eyes off my companion. “And with company.”
“Greta, this is Mei Tan.” I gesture between them. “Mei, this is Greta. She’s been running this place longer than I’ve owned it.”
“The bar,” Greta clarifies. “Not the kitchen. Only that one uses the kitchen when he’s feeling ‘inspired’.”
I shoot her a look that should, by all rights, melt glass. She ignores it completely.
“You’re the noodle girl,” Greta says, leaning forward. “From the internet. The one who puts chili in everything.”
Mei’s mouth twitches. “That’s me. The one who puts chili in everything.”
“And you’re here because...?” Greta looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
“We’re working on a deal,” I say, keeping it vague. “Mei’s considering using our kitchen for a pop-up concept.”
Greta’s other eyebrow joins the first. “The kitchen. Our kitchen. The one with the stove that only has two working burners and the refrigerator that moans like it’s being tortured whenever you open the door.”
“It’s got character,” I say.
“It’s got possible health code violations,” Greta counters.
Mei laughs, the sound bright against the bar’s dim interior. “I’ve worked with worse. Trust me.”
Greta squints at her, and before she says anything, I clear my throat. “Why don’t I show you the kitchen? Get you set up?”
Mei nods, but before we can move, Greta slides a glass of amber liquid across the bar. “House special. On the house.” She nods to Mei. “You look like you could use it.”
Mei takes a sip, and I watch her face carefully. The house special is my own blend. Whiskey aged with vanilla pods and a hint of smoked pepper. It’s not for everyone.
Her eyes widen slightly. “That’s...”
“Too much?” I ask, ready to apologize.
“Perfect,” she finishes. “Exactly the right amount of burn.”
My shoulders drop about three inches. “Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”
The kitchen is, objectively speaking, a disaster.
The previous owner, a dragon-shifter and the bar’s namesake, had more ambition than follow-through. He’d had grand plans for a full bar menu that never materialized. He installed industrial equipment, then decided it was too much work and switched to air frying taquitos and pretzels instead.
When I bought the place, I kept meaning to do something with it, but between learning the bar business and trying to keep the lights on, it fell by the wayside.
It’s not a total loss, though. There’s a six-burner stove (even if only two work consistently), a decent-sized oven, and a proper prep station.
The refrigerator is making that groaning sound Greta mentioned, but it’s keeping things cold.
And there’s a wok station in the corner that I installed on a whim.
Mei walks through the space with the careful assessment of someone who’s worked in enough kitchens to see past the surface. She opens drawers, checks the stove burners, peers into the refrigerator. Her face is neutral, professional.
“I’ve got connections with suppliers,” I offer. “Can get you whatever ingredients you need.”
“It’s not bad,” she says finally. “Definitely workable.” She runs a hand along the countertop. “The wok station is a nice surprise.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Thought it might come in handy.”
What I don’t tell her is that I installed it myself after watching her video on proper wok technique. Spent an entire weekend cutting pipes and running gas lines, all while imagining her using it someday. Which is either romantic or deeply unhinged, depending on who you ask.
“I should probably show you the living quarters,” I say, to change the subject before I embarrass myself further. “They’re upstairs, above the bar. Nothing fancy, but...”
“There’s something on the stove,” Mei interrupts, pointing to the covered pot I’d made myself for dinner and left simmering before I went out.
My stomach drops. “That’s...”
But she’s already crossing to it, lifting the lid. The smell that fills the kitchen is unmistakable. Cumin, garlic, chili oil, and slow-braised lamb.
“You made my noodles,” she says, sounding surprised.
“I was testing the stove,” I lie. “Making sure it could handle, you know. Cooking.”
The truth is, I’d spent the afternoon following her video step by step, pausing between each instruction to make sure I got it right.
I wanted to have something ready when she came to look at the kitchen.
A demonstration that I understood what she did, that I respected it.
That I wasn’t just some random orc who’d happened to see her show.
“May I?”
I must have nodded or grunted out a yes or something, because the next thing I know, Mei reaches for a pair of chopsticks on the counter, and twirls a bite of noodles.
I hold my breath.
She chews slowly, her expression unreadable. Then she takes another bite, and another, her movements quickening.
“These are good,” she says finally. “Really good. The lamb’s tender, the sauce has the right balance...” She tilts her head. “You used black vinegar instead of rice?”
My face heats. “Black vinegar was all I had.”
“Use what you have, I always say. It works,” she says, taking another bite. “Adds depth.” She studies me over the edge of the bowl. “You learned this from the video?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“All of it? The folding technique for the noodles? The marinade for the lamb?”
“Just wanted to get it right,” I manage.
She sets down the bowl, chopsticks placed neatly across the top. “I’ll take the job, if that wasn’t obvious,” she says. “And the room. On two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“One: complete creative control. The menu, the plating, the sourcing. All of it stays with me.”
“Done,” I say immediately. “And two?”
She grins, that same mischievous smile I’ve watched light up my phone screen a hundred times. “Two: you have to let me upgrade this kitchen. Nothing crazy, but a proper ventilation system and a working stove would be nice.”
Relief floods through me, along with something warmer that I refuse to examine too closely. “I think we can manage that.”
She holds out her hand. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Greenfist.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “Oh, please, Tovek,” I supply, taking her hand. “Just Tovek.”
“Tovek,” she repeats, and I’m probably imagining the way she lingers on the syllables. “It’s nice to meet you. Properly, I mean. Not on the street fearing for my kneecaps.”
“Likewise, Chef Tan.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Mei, please. If we’re going to be working together, formality seems unnecessary.”
“Mei, then.” I release her hand before I do something stupid like hold on too long. “Welcome, formally, to The Drunken Dragon.”
“Thanks for the rescue,” she says quietly. “And the noodles.”
Later, after I’ve shown her to the spare room and given her the spare key to the back door, I’m back behind the bar with Greta. The place is half-full. Not great for a Tuesday, but not the ghost town it’s been lately either.
“So,” Greta says, sliding a beer my way. “The Noodle Queen, huh?”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
“I’m just saying, it’s convenient timing.” She wipes down the bar with more focus than necessary. “What with Grishnak sniffing around again last week.”
I stiffen. Grishnak. That damn goblin mobster turned restaurateur with three high-end places in the casino district and a reputation for stealing recipes, poaching staff, and generally being the kind of parasite who thrives on others’ misfortunes.
He’s been circling The Drunken Dragon for months, making lowball offers and thinly veiled threats about what happens to businesses that don’t adapt to changing markets.
And, seems like he’d been circling Mei as well.
“He’s not getting his hands on this place,” I say. “Or my chef.”
Greta raises an eyebrow. “Your chef now, is she?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” she says, and there’s concern in her voice now. “Just remember that Grishnak doesn’t play fair. And he’s been waiting for you to show weakness.”
I glance up at the ceiling, toward where Mei is hopefully getting some rest. “She’s not a weakness,” I say.
Greta studies me for a long moment. “No,” she agrees finally. “I don’t think she is.”
I finish my beer in one long pull, letting the cool liquid wash away the knot of worry forming in my gut. The bar is finally starting to look like it might have a future. The last thing I need is Grishnak deciding that future includes him.
But as I set the empty glass down, I catch myself smiling. I make a call to my banker friend to take care of that loan payment immediately, and set up something to make sure I’ll have enough to float this place for the next few months.
Because I have zero doubts that I will recupe the money. This is an easy bet.
The Drunken Dragon will have a real chef in its kitchen. And not just any chef. Mei Fucking Tan, the woman whose videos have been getting me through the darkest nights of this losing streak.