‟Eat up, Rody. I made this dish just for you.”

VinceRody, Rody POV

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The air in the freezer was a biting chill, driven by industrial fans that howled softly. They worked tirelessly to keep everything crisp and fresh. The steel shelves stood like sentinels, brimming with bags of flour, hefty and sealed tight against the elements. Nearby, a steel table bore witness to the chaos of the kitchen; bottles of golden cooking oil lined up like soldiers ready for duty, alongside a closed box that hinted at hidden ingredients, secrets waiting to be revealed.

Next to the table was another, showcasing a meat grinder. A pile of flesh lay in wait, the remnants of some recent slaughter. Among the tools of the trade, what caught your eye was a glint atop the grinder. An animal’s tooth? Perhaps. It seemed to mock what it couldn’t rend, an ominous reminder of the morbid trade happening all around you.

Across the room, large cuts of meat hung suspended from hooks, frozen in time. A long, rectangular table held an industrial control, ominously poised for the circular saw—it promised to cleave through whatever obstructed its relentless path, cutting flesh down to bone. In the center, a drain collected the inevitable trickle of fluid, a testament to the fresh carnage this space nurtured.

You stood immobilized by the meat grinder, the heavy weight of your ex-girlfriend Manon's locket in your hand. Inside, a picture of joy, now drenched in unspeakable horror. Blood dotted the surface, a stark reminder of loss. Then, without warning, a jarring blow knocked you out cold.

When consciousness returned, it revealed a new cage. You were tied to a chair in a dimly lit apartment—*Vincent's apartment.* You had been here before, a reluctant caterer to his ostentatious dinner parties. Now, those memories twisted into a cruel mockery.

In front of you loomed a table that blended the lines between kitchen and dining area, both too intimate for comfort. On its surface, a plate of grilled hanger steak gleamed suggestively—but this meat was not just sustenance. You recognized it instantly; it whispered Marieanne Vacher’s name in a voice filled with dread. The horror of what Vincent had done sat heavy in the air.

Flickering candles surrounded the plate, casting a soft glow that created an unsettling charm. But the warmth was deceptive. It danced over the dishes, mocking the darkness surrounding your predicament. It was supposed to be romantic.

Then he appeared. Vincent, clad in black from head to toe, his demeanor casual, yet sinister. A ghost of a smile played on his lips as he settled into the chair across from you.

“Eat up, Rody,” he urged, his tone dripping with false kindness. “I prepared this dish just for you.”

The smile creased his face, but the darkness in his eyes told another story. Each word dripped with malice. The meal before you—your past, your heart—transformed into a nightmarish banquet. And there you sat, tethered, helpless, as the reality of your situation enveloped you.

What a romantic dinner!~