Taste Of Algorithm Jinkook/Kookjin story

Coincidence

Jin didn't answer. He just stared at the bottle, the embodiment of his own defeat. Jungkook hadn't just sent him an ingredient. He'd held up a mirror, and Jin was terrified of what he saw reflected in it: a man so governed by fear and pride that he would sabotage his own art to avoid a perceived debt.

The choice, as always, was his. And he had never felt more trapped.

The silence in the wake of Jungkook's call was heavier than any shouting could have been. Jin stood motionless in the center of his kitchen at Jin Eatries, the phantom of that calm, implacable voice still echoing in his ear. The choice, as always, is yours. It was the most manipulative, infuriatingly clever thing anyone had ever said to him. It stripped him of his righteous anger and left him holding a bottle of obscenely expensive truffle oil and the shattered pieces of his own dignity.

He could feel the eyes of his staff on him—the curiosity, the pity, the unasked questions. The air hummed with his humiliation.

"Jimin," he said again, his voice rough, as if scraping over gravel.

Jimin, already halfway to the door, paused. "Hyung?"

"Forget the market." The words tasted like ash. He couldn't do it. He couldn't waste time and money on a performative act of defiance that would only result in an inferior product on his customers' plates. It would be a betrayal of his own standards, the very standards Jungkook had so coolly referenced. He was trapped by his own professionalism. "Just... put it in the pantry."

Jimin's eyebrows shot up, but he knew better than to question it. He took the bottle, handling it like a live explosive, and carried it away.

The rest of the service passed in a blur of forced smiles and robotic efficiency. Jin moved through the motions, but his mind was thirty stories high, in a glass-walled room with a man who had looked at him and seen a lock to be picked.

Later, after closing, the kitchen of Jin Eatries clean and dark save for the single light over the prep station, Jin found himself alone with the bottle. He took it from the pantry. It was cool and heavy in his hand. He uncorked it again, closing his eyes as the decadent, earthy aroma filled his senses. It was the smell of memory. Of a simpler time, before dragons and psychological warfare, when his biggest worry was a tough root vegetable.

A reckless, desperate idea began to form in the exhaustion and solitude. A way to reclaim control. A way to turn the weapon back on its sender.

He pulled out his phone, his movements swift and decisive. He would not call. He would not text. He would speak in the only language they seemed to share: silent, ruthless transaction.

He opened his banking app. He navigated to the transfer function. His fingers flew over the screen, pulling up the transaction history for the Jeon Group's culinary supplier. He found the quoted market price for a bottle of Alba white truffle oil of this caliber. It was a staggering number. He added a significant premium to it—a "inconvenience fee" for the emotional turmoil.

He typed in the supplier's account details. In the memo line, he wrote: Payment in full for truffle oil. No further samples required.

His thumb hovered over the 'Send' button. This was it. This was his countermove. He would pay for the damn oil. He would zero out this ledger, too. He would turn Jungkook's "gift" into a simple, paid-for ingredient, stripping it of all its manipulative power.

He pressed the button.

The confirmation screen flashed green. Transfer Successful.

A wave of cold satisfaction washed over him. There. It was done. He had taken the illogical gesture and made it logical. He had taken the un-askable gift and paid for it. He had reasserted control.