Hidden within a labyrinth of dark, damp alleys heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and pungent spices the "Ros-Lom" restaurant sat in shadows. A lotus-shaped mulberry paper lantern swayed in the biting wind, casting a dim, flickering glow over the faded gold lettering of the sign: รสลม, followed by its Chinese counterpart.
Despite its dilapidated appearance, the name had recently become a frantic whisper among Shanghai's corporate elite. Rumors claimed that anyone who tasted the secret chef's creations would be granted a vision a sudden, miraculous path of survival for a business spiraling toward ruin. A miracle, seasoned and served hot.
The door groaned with a metallic creak as Feng, an executive director of CK Group, stepped inside. He moved with a hunted caution, hiding his gaunt face behind dark sunglasses and a long coat. Shame, born from the trap of greed in the stock market, had driven this once-arrogant man to seek out the supernatural as his final lifeline.
Inside, the aroma of golden-brown sautéed garlic hit his senses. The rhythmic clack-clack of a metal spatula hitting a cast-iron wok echoed from the back. The space was simple: small round wooden tables with peeling paint, cream walls framed by crimson windows, and stacks of Rooster Bowls lining the counter. Next to them sat old tins of Thai Tea and jars of plum liquor, flanked by an array of seasoning: fish sauce, soy sauce, white pepper, and Chinese wine.
Ohm, dressed in a navy-blue Mandarin-collar shirt subtly embroidered with Thai Kanok patterns, had his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A red-and-black Pha Khao Ma (checkered sarong) was draped over his shoulder. He turned to greet his visitor.
"Sawasdee-krub. Have you eaten yet?" The warm, quintessential Thai greeting hung in the air. The mysterious man slowly removed his glasses, revealing dark, sunken eyes.
"Is it true?" Feng asked, his voice a raspy whisper, his hands trembling. "Can this place truly predict the future through food?"
Ohm's lips curled into a smirk. He gestured toward a stool at the counter. "Forecasting through data and analytics… calling it 'divination' sounds a bit odd. But if you call it 'precision analysis using the science of statistics,' it sounds much more professional, don't you think?" Ohm winked playfully. "Now, what can I do for you?"
Feng hesitated, biting his lip. "I…"
Ohm raised a hand to stop him. "Drink first." He poured chilled water from a silver-patterned aluminum pitcher into a gold-tinted aluminum mug. A single fresh Jasmine flower tumbled into the cup. The scent was divine. Feng gulped it down, closing his eyes as the floral coolness revived his withered spirit. Then, the words began to pour out like blood from a wound.
"I... I put everything into Futures. I leveraged to the ceiling because I was certain the charts would soar. But they snapped. The house swept the board. I'm on a Margin Call. If I don't find the cash in three days, everything I've built will be Force-Sold." He sobbed into his hands. "I can't go bankrupt... my family, my children... what will they do?"
Ohm listened, idly scratching his ear with a look of annoyance. Another one, he thought. Gambling their collateral on stocks until they're bled dry, then coming here to wail. Not a single thought of caution when they were red-lining their portfolios, then they act like charred moths when the circuit breaker hits.
"Ah... so you're broke," Ohm surmised, glancing at Feng's tearful face. "Look, Uncle! Investment is risk you have to own your choices. You didn't think about hitting the brakes back then, even though you knew the nature of Futures."
Ohm grumbled, clearly uninterested in helping "brainless" investors. "Honestly, I don't like helping people like you. But since you're here within the daily quota, it would be against the house rules to turn you away."
Feng bowed his head in painful silence. Ohm signaled to his partner in the kitchen.
"Hey, Phueak! Prep the menu for someone who likes playing with fire. The 'Crash into Risk' special!"
Phueak, clad in a traditional Mo Hom indigo shirt and a green checkered Pha Khao Ma, gave a sharp salute. "On it, Boss!"
Ohm began a lethal dance with his knife, slicing Pia Fish into translucent, paper-thin fillets. He then pounded roasted galangal, lemongrass, garlic, and shallots. Thump, thump, thump… The rhythmic strike of the stone pestle against the mortar vibrated through the floor, followed by Feng's sudden sneeze as the spices filled the air.
Ohm tossed the paste into a searing hot pan, followed by a bitter sauce made from Zinnia flowers a substitute for fish bile. A cloud of intense, spicy heat billowed into the air, making Feng cough as the herbal vapors hit him.
"The heat of greed... and profits turning to ash on a red board," Ohm remarked coolly. "They say the poor play the lottery, and the rich play the stocks. In the world of Futures, you're both just gamblers."