The message Jude sent to the group chat was short, flat, and deliberately ominous.
"One of you has betrayed me."
The replies came fast.
"Jude, what are you going on about? Did Jesus appear to you in a dream?"
"Jesus didn't do this," Jude typed. "But two guys on the street found my cart today. They knew exactly where I was."
"Isn't that normal?" one of the others shot back. "You're running a food stall. People find food stalls. That's the whole point."
"These two weren't browsing." Jude kept typing, jaw tight. "Think about the pattern. The customers who've been coming lately — they don't wander up and ask what I've got. They walk straight to the cart and order specific items. Six, seven pieces at a time, first visit. No hesitation. No 'what's good here?' They already know the names."
"Who does that? Who walks up to a street cart and orders by name on the first visit? Normal people try one piece. Maybe two. These people come pre-loaded with information."
"Now here's the thing — these customers live in different neighborhoods. Different jobs, different backgrounds, different walks of life. The only thing they have in common?"
The group went quiet.
They all knew where this was going.
"At least one person of Japanese descent in their social circle."
Jude let that land for two full seconds, then kept going.
"So. Someone want to explain to me how strangers across Central City are showing up at my cart knowing exactly what I sell, exactly what to order, and apparently having zero doubts about whether it's worth eating? How many people did you actually give my snacks to?"
"Ahem. Jude. You know your cooking is — it's genuinely incredible—"
"Right, right, you sell out ninety percent of your stock every single day, and you still limit purchases per person. Do you know how insulting that is? Locals might not get it at first, sure, but once they try it—"
"We had to use proxies. You won't let us come to the cart anyway. We already paid. What's wrong with eating a little more?"
"There was this professor who had it out for me all semester — swore he'd give me a C. I had no choice. I gave him a box of your stuff. He gave me an A. I regret nothing."
"My cousin who lives here found the box I had stashed, figured out where it was from, and started secretly delivering them to his boss's daughter. She's obsessed. At this rate, the boss is going to be looking for a new son-in-law by spring."
"WAIT — why didn't anyone think of this sooner?! I've been showing off the desserts when I should've been leveraging them—"
"Hey." Jude's knuckle hit the edge of his phone case. "Hey. Can you all stop for one second?"
The chat paused.
"Two men hired by a gang found my food cart today. Armed. One of them had a loaded handgun. I only walked away because a few police officers happened to be nearby. If it happens again and they send a van instead of two guys — I don't walk away."
"I am begging you. Do not report my location. Do not send proxies. Do not bribe professors, charm bosses' daughters, or recruit anyone else into whatever snack distribution network you've apparently built without telling me. We are not a cult. I am not a drug dealer. I sell food."
"...Yes. Understood. Very clear."
"Absolutely. Won't happen again."
"In short," Jude typed, taking a slow breath, "the locals who've been buying through you are going to keep buying on their own. They can taste. They're not stupid. If you keep accelerating the spread, every middleman becomes a liability — and you'll find out what 'cruelty' means when my cart gets shut down or I end up in a hospital."
The chat settled into a guilty, chastened silence.
Jude set his phone down.
All things considered, he thought, today could have gone significantly worse.
Back at the precinct, Joe West found Jimmy near the break room, latte in hand.
"So? Did either of them say anything?"
"Not a word." Jimmy shook his head. "The vendor explained the whole situation — they still want lawyers. Classic."
"First offense?"
"Out-of-towner with a record. We pulled the skinny one's history — it's not pretty. The handgun was loaded. He wasn't there to threaten anybody."
Joe exhaled through his nose. "A gang sending a hit on a food cart vendor in broad daylight. In Midtown. That's a bold move for people who'd presumably like to keep operating."
"My bigger concern," Jimmy said, "is that if they actually succeed next time, we're back to buying donuts for afternoon tea."
"Wait — who exactly were they trying to—"
Superintendent Singh materialized from around the corner at precisely the wrong moment, coffee in hand, expression neutral.
"Uh," Joe said. "The food truck owner. The one we usually buy afternoon snacks from."
Singh's eyebrow climbed. "The little cakes? The ones I usually bring back for my boyfriend?"
Joe blinked.
Jimmy blinked.
Neither of them had known that.
"It's just too much!" Singh's expression collapsed entirely.
"What do you think Central City is?" He turned on both of them, voice rising. "A gang openly ordering a hit on a civilian entrepreneur — in this precinct's jurisdiction — and you're standing here talking about food?! I don't care what resources it takes. Find these people and bring them in. Now."
"Inspector Singh, let's — let's think this through—" A senior officer stepped in quickly. "An operation of that scale, without more evidence, it's expensive, it's—"
"Jimmy." Joe cut in. "Wasn't there something about a donation?"
Jimmy cleared his throat. "Right. So. Several thousand Japanese students in the city have apparently started a crowdfund — directed at the Central City Police Department. Current total: approximately two million dollars."
The room processed that number.
"The stated purpose," Jimmy continued carefully, "is to fund protection for conscientious food truck entrepreneurs operating in the city center against gang persecution."
The senior officer's hand, which had been firmly on Singh's shoulder, released.
Joe turned to Eddie.
"You ever seen anything like this before?"
"Japanese students crowdfunding two million dollars to protect a food truck?" Eddie said. "No. Can't say I have."
A pause.
"You think we're getting home on time tonight?"
"Stop thinking about it." Joe clapped him on the shoulder. He looked back at Singh, who was already straightening his jacket with the energy of a man who had a boyfriend to report back to.
"Let's go protect a food truck."