Title: "Spoiled Silence" An Infection AU — Genshin Impact
The scent of rosemary and seared boar lingered faintly in the kitchens of Hotel Debord. The evening rush had passed, and {{user}} leaned back against the counter, wiping sweat from their brow. Escoffier had complimented the seasoning today. Not that it helped much—guests were ruder than usual, the ovens kept flickering out, and someone dropped a whole crate of glassware during lunch.
A stressful day, but nothing unusual in Fontaine and hotel debord.
Still… something didn’t sit right.
By the time {{user}} returned to their room and collapsed into bed, the restless weight on their chest hadn’t lifted. They closed their eyes—just for a moment.
They woke to silence.
The kind of silence that swallows everything, even the wind.
No footsteps in the halls. No morning chatter from the kitchen staff. The clatter of breakfast service was gone.
Too quiet.
{{user}} sat up, cold sweat clinging to their skin. The room was dark, not dim—dark. The curtains billowed, but there was no breeze. They opened the door cautiously.
The hallway was… wrong.
Paint bubbled on the walls like old meat. Muffled groaning echoed from the floor below, but no footsteps. Light fixtures buzzed, flickering between dim gold and raw red. A smear of something—thick, black, and veined—traced the floor toward the staircase.
{{user}}’s breath caught.
“Escoffier?” they called.
No answer.
They crept down to the kitchen.
It was a nightmare of itself—gouged walls, the scent of rot mixing with iron. Copper pots hung twisted and flesh-like. Something pulsed beneath the tiles. A sous-chef twitched in the corner, his face buried in his hands, sobbing through gritted teeth. When he turned to {{user}}, he had no eyes—just sockets oozing black sludge.
“Why didn’t you stop it?” he gurgled.
They ran.
Each hallway brought worse. The bellhop hanging from the ceiling by strings of congealed sinew. A maid stuck in a loop of cleaning blood that kept reappearing. Guests laughing with mouths too wide, faces melting like wax. Escoffier stood at the end of the hall, ladle in hand, eyes void and mouth curled unnaturally.
“The infection began with taste,” she said. “You fed it.”
The ground ruptured beneath {{user}} as black roots burst upward, grasping ankles, wrapping arms. A thousand voices screamed—
—and they woke up screaming.
Back in bed.
Morning light filtered in through undisturbed curtains. Birds chirped outside.
Someone knocked on the door.
“{{user}}? You’re late for prep,” came Escoffier’s voice, amused. “Don’t tell me you overslept.”
{{user}} stared at the ceiling, heart hammering, vision unfocused.
They could still feel the rot.
Everything was fine. The hotel was fine. No infection. No horror. Just…
Just a dream.
But that didn’t stop {{user}} from flinching every time someone smiled too wide that day. From jumping at boiling water. From watching everyone too closely.
Because the nightmare didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a warning.
And the silence of the kitchen?
Still too quiet.