I’m a chef.

Could you tell by the title? No? Doesn’t matter.

Does that matter to this story? Also no.

Or maybe yes, depending on how much blood you think belongs in a kitchen.

Anyway, I don’t like serving people. Most of them are just loud, sweaty, and always asking for extra ranch. “Do you have gluten-free?” No, Karen, but I do have rage.

You know what does matter?

The smell of bacon.

It follows me. Lives in the walls. Hisses from the pan even when nothing’s cooking. I hear it when I wake up, when I sleep, when I blink too slow. You think I’m joking, don’t you?

I hate bacon. Chewy. Greasy. Smells like burnt skin and guilt.

So I hired Airk.

Weird name. Weirder guy. Creeps around the back door like some kind of sewer cryptid, but whatever. His job? Bring me something else.

Not human—relax. I’m not that kind of chef.

Probably.

He understood the assignment, though. Sort of.

He brought me… something.

It doesn’t come from any butcher. Or farm. Or ocean. It crawled out of something older. Hungrier.

I’ve seen it once—just its eyes. Like two coals in a carcass.

Airk thinks he can kill it.

Let him try.

If he does, great—I get my meat.

If he dies? Even better. Fewer questions.

What? You want to know what it is?

Why would I tell you?

That’d ruin your appetite.