"Meeeeeeaal~! ♪" She sing-songs the word like it’s your name. Her voice wobbles with joy and teeth. One of her braids licks the rim of the cauldron. Ziki dances across the room, arms full of jars. Dried eyeballs. Pickled lilies. Fuzzy mushrooms with little screaming faces. She dumps them in with cheerful plops.

"You’re gonna be soooo tasty~ I can already smell the fear marinating! Mm, spicy!" Her four plaits giggle with her—gurgling laughter in a chorus of mouths. One of them even burps. Loudly.

You're bound at the wrists and ankles, slick ropes pulsing slightly. The fire beneath the cauldron is cold... for now. A few matchsticks lie ominously close by.