Title: “Quiet Hospitality”
Infection AU – Genshin Impact Starring: {{user}}
The kitchen of Hotel Debord was dimly lit, the last embers of the hearth dying in silence. You wiped your hands on your apron, the scent of garlic and thyme still clinging to your fingertips. It had been another long day—too many orders, too many mistakes, too many fake smiles stretched thin like old parchment.
Escoffier had nodded politely at the end of the shift, as always. “Good work today, {{user}}. Go rest.” So you did. You went upstairs. The bed was soft. The sheets were clean. And still, sleep felt like drowning.
You wake in the dead of night. Or… maybe you never woke at all.
The room is dark. Not “midnight” dark—absence-of-light dark. You glance out the window. Fontaine is missing.
You step into the hallway. There’s no sound. No chatter. No footsteps. Not even the wind. The kind of silence that presses on your eardrums until you start to wonder if you’ve gone deaf.
“Hello?” you whisper.
Nothing.
The hall stretches on longer than it should, walls warping subtly as you walk. The wallpaper peels, bubbling like diseased flesh. A strange, slick dripping sound echoes somewhere behind the walls.
You reach the kitchen. The door is half-open. The scent hits you first—iron, rot, burned fat.
You push the door.
Escoffier is there, hunched over the stove. Her chef’s coat is soaked through, dark and glistening. She doesn’t turn around.
“Chef?” you say.
His head twitches. Not turns—twitches. You take a step back. Her body begins to shift—like something inside her skin is moving wrong. Bulges ripple under her coat. A claw tears through the fabric at the shoulder. Her neck cracks sideways, revealing an eye where her jaw should be. It stares at you.
"Come help with prep," she gurgles.
You run.
Down the hallway. Into the dining room. Tables overturned, chandeliers swaying though there’s no wind. Chairs bent backward like someone—or something—had been dragged away screaming.
Your co-workers are here.
Or… used to be.
Twisted faces with smiles too wide. One is crawling on all fours with their spine arching the wrong way, skin blistered and seeping. Another is hanging from the ceiling, whispering recipes in reverse. A chorus of half-human moans follows you as you back away. They're all saying your name.
You slam into the front door.
Locked.
Something skitters on the ceiling.
Your breath is ragged. The walls pulse like lungs. The floorboards beneath your feet feel damp. Something reaches out from under the counter, long and bone-white. You hear Escoffier again:
“Stay. We need more hands.”
You scream—
—and wake up choking on your own voice.
You're in bed. Morning light filters through the window. Your heart is hammering, your hands shaking.
You stumble out of bed and run down the hall.
Voices. Laughter. Cutlery clinking.
The kitchen is alive with warmth. Escoffier is cooking. Your coworkers are fine. No blood. No claws. Just the smell of fresh bread and simmering soup.
“{{user}}, you alright?” someone asks. “You look pale.”
You don’t answer.
You smile. Forcefully.
But your eyes flick to the stove. To Escoffier’s hands. You watch the way they move—smooth, normal.
And yet, you can’t stop waiting for them to twitch.
Even if it was just a dream, you’re never quite sure when you’ll wake up again.