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the cook preparing
🕑 Added 2025-05-11 22:48:52 +0000 UTC"The Kitchen Order"
He didn’t scream anymore.
At first, there had been resistance — the sharp intake of breath, muscles clenched against restraints that were never visible yet always firm. But now, the only thing left in his body was stillness.
His cheek rested against the cutting board. Just beside a sliced onion. His eyes, eerily awake, tracked movement, though he made no sound. And in front of him stood two women in flawless uniformed dresses — one burgundy, one slate grey — their collars neat, wrists adorned in glimmering gold watches and bangles that clicked gently as they worked.
They weren’t in a hurry.
They were chefs. They had a process.
Chapter I: Mise en Place
“Slice it thin,” said the woman in grey — her tone casual, almost instructional.
“Yes, chef,” replied the one in burgundy. Her knife moved fluidly, the reflection of the overhead lights glinting along its edge.
The carrots were bright. The onions — perfect spheres. The bloodstains on the counter had dried around their edges like aged wine. Neither of them flinched as the man’s shallow breathing fogged the cool steel near his mouth.
He was shirtless. He was helpless.
But he was still a guest in their kitchen.
Chapter II: Watch the Hands
Both women wore timepieces like badges. Heavy, golden, and unforgiving. One with a deep blue face, the other pale and icy. When they moved, their jewelry clinked softly — musical in contrast to the sterile setting.
The woman in burgundy reached for her cleaver next. Not to use it — not yet. She simply held it up, eyeing its edge, and gently let it hover near his temple.
He didn’t flinch. He knew the rules.
He wasn’t there to speak.
He was there to obey.
Chapter III: Lessons in Quiet
“You know what I admire most in a cut of meat?” the grey-clad woman asked.
“Not the texture,” she answered herself, tapping the man’s scalp with the tip of her blade. “But the silence. The perfect stillness before the slice.”
She smiled — not cruelly, but like a teacher proud of her work.
They weren’t monsters.
They were perfectionists.
The vegetables were arranged precisely on one end of the counter. The man’s head, meanwhile, served as both centerpiece and cutting board. His breath fogged slowly. His eyes still watched.
Chapter IV: The Secret Ingredient
“Do you want to tell us what we asked for?”
The voice was soft, almost concerned.
But he didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The onion near his face was already half-sliced — not by the knife, but by pressure alone.
The woman in burgundy finally spoke:
“Fine. Let’s proceed with the reduction.”
And just like that, the cleaver came down — not on flesh, not yet — but on the board. A warning. The table jumped. His breath quickened.
Final Chapter: Served Cold
Minutes later, the two women turned from the counter, wiping their hands on folded white cloths.
The food was ready. The man — or what remained — lay still, used but intact, like a ceremonial centerpiece.
The kitchen was quiet again.
Only the ticking of two luxury watches filled the air.
And one of them said,
“Call the others. Dinner’s ready.”
