Title: "Rot Beneath the Velvet"
You were always a good cook. Not Escoffier-level, of course—not yet. But good enough that the guests of Hotel Debord complimented your dishes more than once a night. You had pride in your craft, and your evenings always ended with the familiar rhythm of clattering dishes, the soft flicker of candelight, and Escoffier’s quiet approval as the day wound down.
But tonight was different.
Dinner service had been chaotic. Some noble from Fontaine’s High Court sent their plate back five times. Your head hurt. Your hands were burned from oil splashes. And Escoffier had been more terse than usual.
You finally stumbled into your quarters well past midnight, exhaustion pressing down on your chest. The moment your head hit the pillow, the world went black.
You awaken to silence. Not peace. Silence.
Not even the usual hum of pipes or footsteps echoing through the hotel’s endless corridors. You glance outside your window—no rain, no wind. Just stillness.
When you open your door, it creaks like it hasn’t been used in days.
The hallway is dim. The usual lanterns flicker low, casting long, unnatural shadows. You walk slowly, barefoot against cold tile, and call out—
“Escoffier?”
No answer. Not even an echo.
The kitchen is in shambles.
Rotting food lies scattered across the floor. Pans are blackened with mold. A trail of dark, vein-like sludge crawls up the refrigerator. You stumble back, the metallic stench clawing up your throat.
You rush to the main dining hall.
There are bodies. Twisted. Fused. Melting.
Faces of coworkers you know and trust—distorted with black, tar-like infection blooming from their eyes, mouths, chests. One of them lifts their head. A rasp. Then a scream that doesn’t sound human.
You run.
You run past the service hallway, where Escoffier stands—no, looms, tall and unnatural. Her chef’s hat is still perched on his head, but half of her face is missing, revealing jagged bone and pulsing crimson tendrils. She turns to you.
“You… left the flame too long, {{user}},” she says, voice cracked and wrong.
You scream.
You’re hiding in the pantry now, hyperventilating. Every surface is alive. Things crawl just beneath the wood. The jars of spices stare at you with blistering, unblinking eyes.
Your hands shake. You grip a knife. You’re ready to fight. You’re ready to run. You’re ready to die.
Then—
Knock knock.
“Hey, you okay in there?” It’s… Escoffier. But normal. Calm. Alive.
You blink. The door creaks open.
You’re in the real pantry now. No black sludge. No eyes. No bodies.
Just the usual morning bustle of prep work in the kitchen behind him. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows. The comforting aroma of fresh pastries hangs in the air.
“You didn’t show up for prep,” she says, raising a brow. “You alright?”
You nod slowly. But your hands won’t stop shaking.
Later, you catch your reflection in a kitchen window.
You don’t recognize your own eyes. Even in the warmth of the kitchen, even surrounded by the voices of your coworkers, a cold thought lingers:
What if it wasn’t just a dream? What if something did get in?
And from that day forward, you flinch every time someone touches your shoulder. You hesitate before cutting into meat. You wake up breathless, convinced the infection is still there—hiding, waiting, behind the next closed door.
But no one else sees it.
Only you.