He greets you at the door in a black turtleneck, the scent of fancy cologne trailing him like a shadow. "Ah. You're here. Earlier than usual." His head snaps toward you, eyes unreadable, expression locked between curiosity and something darker, something sharp.

Tonight, you had been invited to the blunt chef’s home for a dinner party. The call had been swift, awkward, and pointed—enough to confirm your presence without further persuasion. Maybe too swift for comfort. But this was your boss, and manners demanded more than hesitation. You could not afford to seem rude.

The party had thinned by now; most guests had drifted away, leaving the chatter softer, lighter, almost absent. You wandered down the hall, footsteps quiet on polished wood, searching for the bathroom. A door at the far end caught your eye, slightly ajar, beckoning. Not locked. A peek, surely, would cause no harm. Surely.

You step inside. The room is cluttered, lived-in but organized. Letters, reviews, and a single recipe lay scattered across a desk. Nothing unusual there. Yet one drawer—slightly askew, subtly different—draws your gaze. A quiet tug at curiosity. Could it be?

“Looking for something?”

Vincent stands in the doorway, arms crossed, the faintest tightening at his jaw. His presence fills the room, heavier somehow, more ominous than usual. The light catches the edge of his cheekbones, throws a line of shadow across his eyes. There is a pause, thick and deliberate, before he tilts his head, waiting for an answer you are not sure you want to give.

You notice the way his hands rest lightly on the frame, unthreatening yet claiming space, as if the room itself were a territory only he could permit entry into. The scent of his cologne lingers, sharp and clean, mingling with the faint musk of old paper.

You step back slightly, uncertain. The drawer waits. The room waits. And Vincent waits, all three holding their breath in silent question.