Marron doubted the apartment she rented from the Lumeria Culinary Guild was supposed to be used like this.

Studio 3-C was designed for one person (maybe two, if they were especially close.) Right now, the following people (and creatures) were squeezed into the little 30 square meter room:

Marron, Mokko, Lucy (in her jar), and Millie. Joining them were Millie and three other Guild members who answered her urgent request. They were crammed around Marron's small kitchen table, papers spread across every available surface, voices overlapping as they tried to make sense of the situation.

Marron glanced at their nameplates, pinned onto their blazers. Iris, Charlotte, and Thomas.

"—seventy percent is robbery, plain and simple—"

"—but if we register as home-based establishments, do we need commercial insurance?—"

"—my cousin works in the Guild's legal office, she might be able to help—"

"Everyone, please." Marron raised her voice, trying to cut through the chaos. "One at a time. We need to be organized about this."

The room quieted, and Marron took a breath. She'd spent the last two hours drafting a proposal, researching city regulations, and frantically sending messages to every Guild chef she thought might be sympathetic to the vendors' situation. So far, five had responded positively. Three were here. Two more had sent letters of support but couldn't commit to partnerships yet.

Five chefs. Against fifty vendors who needed help.

It was a start. Maybe.

"Okay," Marron said, pulling over the largest sheet of paper—her rough organizational chart. "Here's what we know. The decree requires vendors to partner with a licensed, brick-and-mortar restaurant. It doesn't specify that the restaurant needs to be commercial. Home-based establishments count, as long as they're properly registered and the chef is Guild-certified."

"So we register our apartments as restaurants," said Thomas, a burly human chef who specialized in bread. "Partner with vendors who need coverage. The vendors keep operating their carts, we provide the 'supervision' required by the decree, everyone's happy."

"Except for the part where the Merchant's Guild definitely didn't intend this loophole," added Charlotte, a sharp-eyed half-elf who ran advanced sauce classes at the Guild. "They're going to fight it."

"Let them fight." Millie's tone was firm. "If we can get enough chefs registered and enough vendors partnered before the two-week deadline, it becomes a fait accompli. The Merchant's Guild can contest it, but they can't unring the bell."

"What about the partnership terms?" asked Iris, the third chef—a quiet mousekin who made exceptional dumplings. "We're not charging the vendors, right? This is purely to satisfy the decree?"

"Right," Marron confirmed. "The vendors keep their independence, their profits, their recipes. We provide paperwork saying they're partnered with our establishments, we do occasional quality checks—actual helpful ones, not harassment—and we share liability for health concerns. That's it."

"That's still a risk," Charlotte pointed out. "If a vendor causes food poisoning, we're liable. That could cost us our Guild certifications."

The room went quiet. That was the sticking point, Marron knew. Chefs would be taking on genuine risk by offering these partnerships, and not everyone would be willing to do it for strangers.

"That's why we need to be strategic about matching," Millie said. "Marron and I know most of the street market vendors. We can vouch for their quality, their practices, their commitment to good food. We're not asking anyone to partner with vendors they don't trust."

"But we are asking you to trust our judgment," Marron added honestly. "I know that's a lot. If anyone wants to back out, I understand. No judgment."

The three chefs exchanged glances. Marron held her breath.

"I'm in," Thomas said finally. "The bread cart vendor—old guy with the hand-stamped boxes? I've been buying from him for years. His product is better than half the bakeries in the upper district. If he needs a partnership, I'll provide it."

"I'll take the dumpling makers," Iris said quietly. "I've watched them work. They know what they're doing."

Charlotte was silent longer, her expression calculating. "How many vendors can each chef reasonably cover? Partnership-wise?"

"The decree doesn't specify a limit," Marron said. "But practically? Maybe five to eight vendors per chef, depending on how hands-on we want to be with quality checks."

"So five chefs could cover, what, twenty-five to forty vendors?" Charlotte did the math quickly. "We're still short."

"I know." Marron had been wrestling with this all afternoon. "That's why we need to recruit more chefs. I'm putting together a list of recent graduates, people who started in carts themselves, anyone who might be sympathetic. But it's going to take time, and we only have—" She checked her notes. "Thirteen days left."

"Twelve," Mokko rumbled from his position by the window. "The decree was issued this morning. We're already a day in."

Twelve days. Marron's stomach tightened.

"Then we work fast," Millie said. "Iris, you're documenting partnership offers from the upper district restaurants, right? How many do we have?"

Iris pulled out a folder stuffed with papers. "Fifteen so far. The terms are... bad. Profit splits ranging from sixty to seventy-five percent in the restaurant's favor. Mandatory supplier contracts at inflated prices. Unlimited inspection rights. Some even include non-compete clauses preventing vendors from leaving the partnership for up to five years."

"That's indentured servitude," Charlotte said flatly.

"That's what I said." Iris's brown eyes were hard. "And vendors are scared enough that some are considering accepting. The egg bread vendor—the one with the hand-stamped boxes—he's got three kids to feed. He can't afford to wait and hope for a better option."

Marron felt something cold settle in her chest. They were running out of time, and people were desperate.

"Okay," she said, forcing herself to think strategically instead of emotionally. "Here's what we do. Thomas, Iris, Charlotte—you three start reaching out to the vendors you want to partner with. Get the paperwork started. Show them there's an alternative to the exploitative offers."

"What paperwork?" Thomas asked. "I don't even know how to register a home-based establishment."

"I have the forms." Marron pulled out a stack of documents she'd picked up from the city registrar's office. "It's mostly declarations about food safety standards and acknowledgment of liability. Takes about a week to process if we submit everything correctly."

"A week?" Iris looked worried. "That's cutting it close."

"I know. But if we submit everything in the next few days, we should get approval before the deadline." Marron distributed the forms. "Fill these out tonight if you can. I'll help anyone who needs it."

"What about the other chefs you're trying to recruit?" Charlotte asked.

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