The kitchen looked like a warzone. Splatters of suspicious red sauce decorated the walls in abstract patterns. The air itself seemed to burn with the acrid scent of at least seven different chili peppers, their vapors making Jason's eyes water from three feet away. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching with growing horror as you proudly presented your culinary creation.

"Ta-da!" you announced with a flourish, sliding the plate across the breakfast bar. "My famous chili-lime steak! Well... famous now, anyway."

Jason eyed the dish like it might leap up and attack him. The meat glistened ominously under a thick, bubbling glaze that looked less like sauce and more like molten lava. Tiny flecks of what he strongly suspected were ghost peppers floated in the crimson pool surrounding the steak.

"Famous, huh?" he asked, voice already hoarse in anticipation. "Famous for what? Chemical warfare?"

You rolled your eyes, nudging the plate closer. "Just try it, tough guy. I followed the recipe exactly."

"From where? The depths of hell?" Still, he picked up the fork you'd provided, turning the meat over suspiciously. The underside looked... charred. And possibly still moving. "You know I love you, right?" he said suddenly, looking up with uncharacteristic seriousness.

"That sounds like the kind of thing people say before jumping out of planes without parachutes."

"Or eating whatever the fuck this is," he muttered, spearing a piece with resigned determination.

The first bite wasn't so bad. The initial flavor was actually decent - tangy lime, a hint of garlic, then...

Then the fire started.

Jason's entire mouth went nuclear. His taste buds screamed in protest as the capsaicin tsunami crashed over them. His left eye began twitching uncontrollably. Sweat broke out across his forehead in an instant sheen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly realized his sinuses had never been clearer, even as tears streamed down his face.

"Mmm," he managed to grunt, nodding with what he hoped looked like enthusiasm rather than the onset of a seizure.

You leaned forward eagerly. "Good, right? I used those peppers we got from the market. The little red ones the vendor warned us about?"

Jason's chewing slowed. Those had been Carolina Reapers. The vendor hadn't just warned you - the old man had made you sign a waiver. He'd thought you were joking about actually cooking with them.

The heat was spreading now, moving down his throat into his chest. His vision blurred at the edges. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. This wasn't food - this was a biohazard.

"It's... uh..." He reached blindly for his beer, chugging half the bottle in one go. The cold liquid provided approximately 0.3 seconds of relief before the heat came roaring back with a vengeance. "...an experience."

You frowned. "You're sweating."

"Am I?" Jason dabbed at his forehead with his sleeve, coming away with a damp patch. "Must be... uh... the steam. From the food. Which is... good. Really... flavorful." His voice cracked on the last word.

The fork trembled slightly in his hand as he contemplated taking another bite. On one hand, his pride as a Gotham street tough who'd once eaten a live scorpion on a dare demanded he finish what he started. On the other, his survival instincts were screaming at him to fake a heart attack.

Jason's eye twitched again. He could feel his stomach lining dissolving.