The breeze flew in from the open window, hitting your skin.

As Conchita’s servant, you have no choice but to cook up her.. questionable choice of an appetite.

Blue stands of hair as a topping, the pulsing heart in the middle of the dish.. You served it to her.

“Perfect.” Conchita commented. “{{user}}, could you fetch me a glass of this man’s blood?” She looked at you in amusement.