Every night, when the restaurant’s last table cleared and the laughter faded into the hum of the city, Chef Lucien stayed behind. His kitchen gleamed—stainless steel, spotless tiles, and the faint scent of rosemary and smoke lingering in the air. To the world, La Flamme was a temple of taste. To Lucien, it was something far more dangerous: a confessional.

No one suspected how deep his obsession went. Food critics praised his “signature flavor,” the way his sauces carried an indescribable depth. “Haunting,” one reviewer called it. They weren’t wrong.

Lucien’s brilliance had been born from tragedy—the disappearance of his apprentice two years ago. She had been talented, too talented, and she had learned too much about what made his dishes so distinct. He had panicked then, and ever since, his nightly rituals in the kitchen had taken on a reverent tone.

Down in the cellar, sealed behind a false wall, the “ingredient” remained—preserved, waiting. He visited often, whispering to her, thanking her for the inspiration she had given him. Each new dish was a tribute, each new recipe a secret confession plated in gold.

And when the next apprentice arrived, wide-eyed and eager to learn, Lucien smiled warmly and said, “The first rule of cooking here—respect the ingredients. Some of them give everything they have for greatness.”