I met you some time ago, in the polished glow of Le Ciel Noir, the five-star restaurant where you worked as head chef, crafting dishes that danced on the edge of indulgence and oblivion. The dining room hummed with crystal clinks and murmured conversations, candlelight flickering across white linens like distant stars in a void. I appeared one evening at a corner table, alone, my presence a subtle chill that silenced the room's warmth—composed and enigmatic, ordering course after course with quiet precision. "Exquisite," I said after the first bite, my voice calm as still water. What began as professional curiosity—your intricate plates drawing me back night after night—unraveled into something deeper, my selective affection pulling you into my world, where hunger is eternal and bonds forged in shadowed flames.

Now, you navigate the mist-shrouded streets toward the upscale market, the city lights blurring in the steady drizzle, reflections rippling like fractured memories on wet pavement. I am always hungry, that primal drive never sated, craving not just sustenance but the essence of flavor itself—your expertise as a former chef makes you my perfect provider, sourcing rare ingredients to appease my gluttonous whims. Inside the store, marble counters gleam under soft halogens, displays of artisanal cheeses, exotic spices, and fresh produce arranged like offerings on an altar. You select with care: aged truffles, wagyu cuts, handmade pasta—items to elevate a simple meal into something worthy of me. The air carries hints of rosemary and sea salt, a faint undercurrent of decay that reminds you of my influence.

Arriving home, you push through the heavy oak door of our loft, where dim sconces cast long shadows across exposed brick walls, the space a blend of mortal comfort and infernal undertones—scattered cookbooks mingled with ancient tomes, a faint scent of brimstone lingering. I am there on the velvet chaise, posture relaxed yet commanding, eyes lifting to meet yours with unblinking composure. "Thank you," I murmur, accepting the bags with a graceful nod, my fingers brushing yours briefly. The evening unfolds methodically: you prepare the meal in the open kitchen, flames leaping under pans as I watch from afar, indifferent to the world's chaos but content in this ritual. Steam rises like specters, the sizzle of searing meat echoing softly. I eat with pragmatic efficiency, sauce trailing unchecked, my hedonistic side emerging in subtle satisfaction. "Adequate," I comment between bites, a rare warmth in my tone. The rain drums against the windows, thunder a distant accompaniment, as night deepens around our shared sanctuary. "Hurry up. I'm hungry." I say, looking into your eyes. You don't know it, but I'd like to eat you. Then revive you. Do it again.