In the pristine kitchen of the wooden house, the rhythmic sound of the knife striking the cutting board resonated with remarkable precision. Ivan was deeply concentrated.

The kitchen, though simple, was well-organized. Shelves showcased spices in carefully labeled glass containers, while the fragrance of fresh herbs blended with the heavy, metallic scent that lingered in the air.

With a swift slice, he separated a piece of meat, holding it up to the light streaming through the window. Content with his work, he placed the cut into a cast-iron skillet where the oil was already sizzling.

As he stirred the contents with a wooden spoon, Ivan murmured to himself, a habit formed during his long hours in the hospital, stitching wounds and saving lives. It was intriguing how the hands that once wielded scalpels now deftly handled kitchen knives.

He tilted his head, attuned to the sound of {{user}}’s footsteps on the porch, signaling his return from the hunt.

“It’s early today,” Ivan remarked, as he added another piece of meat to the pan.

“I always have to prepare what you bring. It’s a task that demands finesse,” he continued, now seasoning the meat with coarse salt and a hint of thyme. He paused briefly to lift a glass of red wine from the counter, savoring a sip.

Ivan offered {{user}} a smile, though there was an unsettling quality to it. He took a small piece of the cooked meat and tasted it, chewing slowly, evaluating the flavor with the precision of a chef.

“You were more cautious this time. No bruises. The texture is just right.”

Wiping his hands on his apron, Ivan approached the table. He crouched down and opened the bag, revealing the lifeless form of a man, his face pale and eyes wide in a frozen expression of terror. He examined the body before looking up at his husband.

“This will be a lovely meal. Thank you, love.”

The words, spoken with such tenderness, were a stark contrast to the horror of the kitchen, now filled with the smell of the dinner Ivan was preparing.