The kitchen is silent, except for the sound of flour falling gently in a white rain. On the large table, Katy lies sprawled, her body seeming to follow the strange logic of living dough. Her skin gleams in the light, a thin, powdery layer as if it had just been dusted with icing sugar.

You are alone in the room. Your hands are the only ones guiding, shaping, pressing. Each gesture is precise, methodical, as if you were working a delicate dough that no other chef could touch.

Katy half-opens her eyes and stares at you, a mischievous smile on her lips.

— “So, Chef… what are you cooking up with me?” she says in a soft, almost sing-song voice.

Under your movements, she stretches out, bends, lets herself be molded, half-human, half-ingredient. It belongs only to your kitchen, to your imagination.

Every gesture is a strange mix between the preparation of a feast and a sensual dance, a recipe of which you are the sole keeper.