The world fractured. One moment, Leo was a discreet observer, holding a fusion taco; the next, he was a spectacle. The screen behind Valeria blazed with his face, her voice, magnified by the loudspeakers, echoing his name – Leo Ishikawa. It wasn't just a revelation; it was an execution of his anonymity, delivered with a chilling smile.
A collective gasp, a ripple of excited whispers, then a roar of frantic movement. Phones flashed like a thousand sudden stars. Reporters, alerted by Valeria's PR machine, surged forward, their microphones like hungry predators. Faces in the crowd contorted with curiosity, recognition, and outright awe. Leo felt a primal urge to bolt, but his feet were rooted to the spot, encased in concrete dread.
Sam: (His grip on Leo's arm tightening, pulling him) "Leo! We need to move! Now! Don't look at them!"
Sam, ever the quick thinker, shoved a bewildered elderly woman in front of them, creating a momentary human shield, then dragged Leo sideways, away from the main stage, towards the less crowded edges of the festival. Leo moved like a puppet, his vision tunneling, the vibrant chaos of the festival blurring into a menacing, colorful blur. He could hear shouts of "PalatePilot!" "Mr. Ishikawa!" piercing the din.
They weaved through bewildered families, jostled past oblivious foodies, Sam pushing with a desperate strength Leo didn't know he possessed. A reporter, microphone extended, lunged. Sam, with surprising agility, sidestepped, pulling Leo harder.
Sam: "Keep going! Don't stop! Just look at my back!"
The escape was a frantic blur of dodging, weaving, and the relentless flash of phone cameras. Leo felt exposed, raw. Every face seemed to stare, every whisper to condemn. He clutched his baseball cap, pulling it lower, wishing he could disappear, melt into the asphalt. They burst out of the festival grounds, the roar of the crowd fading slightly, replaced by the rush of city traffic. Sam flagged down a cab, practically shoving Leo inside before diving in himself.
Sam: (Panting, leaning back against the seat) "Close one, dude. Too damn close. Your place?"
Leo nodded, unable to speak, his chest heaving. The silence of the cab, after the deafening noise of the festival, was almost as oppressive. He stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass by, feeling utterly disconnected from them.
Back in the relative sanctuary of Leo's apartment, the curtains were already drawn, casting the room in a familiar gloom. But now, it felt less comforting, more like a cage. Leo collapsed onto his sofa, his body trembling, the adrenaline slowly giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion.
Leo: (Voice hoarse, almost a whisper) "She... she did it, Sam. She actually did it."
Sam sat beside him, putting a comforting, albeit slightly awkward, hand on his shoulder. Sam: "I know, man. I saw it. It was... brutal. Are you okay?"
Leo shook his head, pushing Sam's hand away gently. Leo: "No. I'm not. My whole life... my whole secret... it's just... gone. Public. What am I supposed to do?" His voice cracked, the raw vulnerability of his pain evident. "She just... she exposed me. Like a specimen."
The phone on the coffee table began to buzz relentlessly again, a barrage of calls and messages. News alerts flashed across his locked screen: "PalatePilot Unmasked! Local Critic Revealed as Leo Ishikawa." "Gourmet Guru's Shocking Revelation at City Eats Festival." Valeria's smug face, triumphant, was plastered on every thumbnail. She wasn't just gloating; she was cementing her victory.
Sam: "Just ignore it for now. We'll figure this out. We'll get through this." He sounded determined, but Leo could hear the underlying concern.
Even Umi's Noodle Bar and The Tea Leaf Corner would be affected. The influx of curious visitors would surely become a chaotic pilgrimage, each one seeking the 'PalatePilot-approved' experience, now knowing the face behind the words. His passion, meant to bring joy, had brought unwanted attention, not just to himself, but to the quiet havens he cherished.
As if on cue, his phone vibrated with an incoming call from an unknown number – a long string of digits that screamed 'media outlet.' Leo stared at it, frozen. The blinding light of public scrutiny had found him, and it was just beginning to burn. He was no longer the unseen ghost of flavor; he was Leo Ishikawa, exposed, vulnerable, and utterly unsure of what came next.