Chapter 3: The Endangered Ingredient

October 10th, 2024 (April 14th Revamp, 2025)

The Endangered Ingredient

After the trio heard the loud noise coming from the back of Tariq’s kitchen—

“Wait… was that, like, an oven explosion?”

“Harith is probably right. Right, Tariq?”

“No… I know what an oven explosion sounds like.”

Knowing there was a high chance of finding the intruder there, Tariq quickly ran to the basement of his house, where he kept some Disposition powders.

“And I was right,”

Tariq said with certainty in his voice, knowing damn well his thinking was a hundred percent correct.

He spotted someone—wearing a mask that only covered his facial features, leaving the eyes, nose, and even his spiky gray hair exposed. He wore a gray sweater along with black trousers.

The intruder had already picked up a blue Disposition powder and was holding it in his hand.

His eyes widened in shock. It was as if he knew exactly who Tariq was.

But the intruder couldn’t bring himself to speak, feeling too ashamed.

“So… speak up. Why are you stealing from me? I can’t bring myself to trust someone who breaks into my house to steal my belongings—especially something dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Tariq grabbed a circular oven as if he were holding a minigun. The oven was on, and the door was locked.

“That’s your laaast chance. Speak up, or I’ll show you how harmful my food can get when I use it to attack.”

Too much was going on in the intruder’s mind. He wasn’t even focusing on Tariq or his words.

(This man… my brother… no way.)

But the intruder quickly realized he was in danger. The hand holding the powder pouch instinctively reached for his mouth. He inhaled the powder, swallowing the whole thing in one breath.

The intruder’s eyes widened slightly, now glowing with a faint blue gleam—indicating his Disposition had somehow awakened instantly.

(D-Damn… he actually did it?!)

Tariq thought to himself.

“Alright, you’ve asked for it!”

The oven door opened automatically, firing burning-hot cookies at the intruder. Despite their heat, the cookies didn’t look burnt at all—which only proved how good of a chef Tariq really was.

(I don’t know what kind of ability he just obtained… but this attack should do the trick.)

From the intruder’s perspective, he could see every flying cookie moving significantly slower. He easily moved his body, dodging them one by one.

(What?! He dodged them like a professional?)

“Tariq, let us help you!”

Both Amina and Harith called out, not waiting for a response as they tried to step in anyway.

But Tariq quickly reached his hand across to stop them.

“Sit back. It’s my problem—and my basement.”

He spoke firmly, not wanting his friends to get hurt.

Then the intruder finally spoke, hesitating.

“Tariq… I’m sorry. But I’ll have to defend myself now.”

(Hold up… this guy knows my name? And he’s speaking like we knew each other… damn it.)

As Tariq was distracted by his thoughts, the intruder suddenly dashed toward him at an incredibly high speed.

(After dodging those cookies… I feel like I’ve gained a ton of power and energy in my fists… not to mention, I got way faster.)

The intruder’s fist, now emitting a red aura, was aimed directly at Tariq’s face.

A sweat ran down Tariq’s face, shocked by the intruder’s speed. He barely had time to react, but quickly pulled out a sizzling hot pan to block the attack.

The intruder’s fist collided with the pan, denting it in the shape of his fist.

Feeling the intense heat, the intruder instinctively yanked his hand back.

While he was distracted, Tariq took the opportunity to strike—delivering a swift upper smack to the intruder’s chin, knocking him to the floor.

A thin trail of blood dripped from the intruder’s mouth as he hit the ground.

“Give up. I’m not letting you run—not until you explain yourself, your goal with a Disposition, and who told you about me.”

The intruder suddenly recalled his conversation with a mysterious figure who had told him about Tariq.

A man with neck-length black hair and a beige trench coat. Strangely, his eyes were hidden in shadow, concealed by his hair.

The man:

“Under any circumstances, do not tell anyone about my identity. Understood, Mutafakir?”

(Can’t rat out the person who told me how to obtain an ability…)

Mutafakir thought.

Tariq stepped forward, towering over the fallen intruder.

“I’m willing to forgive you—only if you extend your right wrist to me. It’ll help me remove the Disposition from you, and nobody gets hurt.”

Mutafakir was just about to listen and offer his wrist—but the moment he heard Tariq mention removing his Disposition, he pulled back.

“The hell?! Hell no! I just got my ability. Good guy or not, I ain’t giving it up.”

Tariq’s face darkened.

“Then have the pleasure of getting cooked by the best chef in the country!”

He opened the oven door he’d been carrying, as if preparing to put Mutafakir inside.

Harith:

“Wait, Tariq! You are—”

But Mutafakir wasn’t helpless. He had a bit of blue Disposition powder left in his pocket. He reached in, grabbed a handful, and flung it into Tariq’s eyes—temporarily blinding him.

(Shit!)

Tariq stumbled back, blinded by the powder. Mutafakir used the moment to run.

In his disoriented state, Tariq dropped the oven with a loud crack.

Amina and Harith:

“Tariq, no!”

Tariq quickly reached into the side pocket of his pants, pulling out a clean chef’s knife. Despite his blurred vision, he stabbed the oven in a precise spot.

His eyes opened momentarily—bloodshot and red from the powder.

He then threw the same knife with perfect aim at Mutafakir, who was escaping through a broken opening at the back of the house.

The knife pierced Mutafakir’s scapula. He let out a sharp gasp of pain and stumbled.

The oven Tariq had dropped earlier now lay beside him—on the verge of exploding.

Once again, time slowed for Mutafakir.

The pain from the stab was dulled by his ability, though the bleeding continued.

The oven was about to blow.

Thanks to the slowed environment, Mutafakir had a moment to think.

(If I’m not wrong… it should be right here.)

Gritting his teeth, Mutafakir reached for the knife lodged in his scapula and yanked it out—grunting but not screaming.

He immediately stabbed a specific spot near the oven door—the ignition system—disrupting it and minimizing the explosion’s force.

Then, he kicked the oven away and took the chance to escape.

Moments later, the oven exploded.

Tariq raised a palm to shield his eyes as he looked at the blast.

“Well… that should’ve done the trick.”

He began wiping his eyes.

Harith:

“Overboard.”

(He hadn’t finished his sentence from earlier.)

Harith sighed and sat down.

Meanwhile, Amina was already on the floor, munching popcorn like she was watching a theater performance.

Harith joined her, finishing off his own handful.

“The heck are you two doing?! Did y’all even ask before taking that?!”

“I mean… you kinda have everything. We thought it’d be no big deal.”

Amina said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Harith:

“Yeah! Cool ass fight, by the way, Tariq! You gotta teach me those moves one day!”

He spoke with genuine excitement, clearly enjoying every second of the fight.

Tariq sighed and sat down next to them.

“Wait, Tariq. You didn’t tell us you had those Disposition powders?”

“Look, guys. I’m the only one who can craft those banjo powders. I’m not exactly sure how this guy knew about them…”

Tariq thought to himself.

(Though… this guy was acting like we were friends or had met before… Who is he, actually?)

Harith:

“Tariq?”

“O-Oh yeah. Anyway, fixing that’s gonna cost me a few thousand pounds… dammit.”

“But I’ve named my ability Chief’s Clandestine. Basically, it’s the result of my love for cooking.”

“And that’s also how I can tell Amina just stole 32 grams of custard from the right counter’s top.”

“Ugh, come on! You’re no fun…”

Tariq looked up at the clock, hands on his hips.

“Well, guys… it’s kinda late now, isn’t it?”

The TV was still on, airing a random show—until it suddenly switched to breaking news.

Broadcaster:

“Breaking news! A lot of suicide cases have been reported at Moaz bin Jabal Primary School!”

Harith:

“Suicide cases? Huh… that’s weird. I’ve seen a bunch of emos out there. Is being emo like an infection or somethin’?”

—Back to Mutafakir, who sat behind a rock after making Tariq believe he was taken out.

He panted for a few seconds, then huffed as he caught his breath. A flashback hit him—of when he’d met the black-haired man.

It was a rainy day… Mutafakir had been chasing someone when he slipped and fell to the ground.

A shadowy figure stood over him, holding an umbrella.

That figure extended a hand to the fallen Mutafakir.

To be continued…