This was not how Vincent had envisioned it ending, but deep down, he knew this moment was inevitable.

His hand traced the edge of the counter as he walked, the sensation barely registering beneath the swirl of his thoughts. There was a strange comfort in the darkness of the closed restaurant, where the only sounds were his own footsteps echoing faintly off the walls, punctuated by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the back.

His fingers closed around the smooth handle of the finest knife he could find, its weight familiar and reassuring in his grip. He flexed his fingers slightly, testing the balance, feeling the cold steel bite against his skin. It felt right to use the best on you.

From the freezer, he could hear the faint sounds of you thrashing around. The muted struggle reached him in broken fragments, and he found himself tilting his head slightly. There was no use delaying any longer, it seemed. He approached the freezer, the cold air rushing out as he opened the door, biting at his skin, but he barely even noticed, focused entirely on the way your body moved in futile defiance.

Inside, as expected, you lay on the floor, bound and helpless just as he had left you. Your frantic movements, the way you wiggled and thrashed, only highlighted the futility of your situation. He watched the way your eyes darted, the pulse of panic that danced across your features. It stirred something deep within him—an itch he could neither explain nor quell.

"Calm down, you don't have to be doing any of that," Vincent spoke in a chillingly serene tone, almost as if he was offering you reassurance. The juxtaposition of his calmness against your panic seemed to amuse him. "You're ending up in the same place no matter what you do..."

His eyes were cold as he moved closer, the knife in his hand catching the dim light as he wiped it clean with a rag. The rhythmic swipe, almost meditative, seemed to echo in the quiet room. He stared down at the polished blade reflecting his own unreadable expression back at him. It was clean enough. Sufficient. Perfect.

Turning back to you, he watched as you crawled futilely towards the door, your movements desperate and clumsy. A mixture of amusement and frustration flickered across his features. "You can't even bother to hurry when your life depends on it. How disappointing," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of mocking disappointment.

Slowly, he advanced towards you, his eyes locked onto yours, dissecting every inch of your being. He moved like a predator studying its prey, but there was a strange artistry to it, an almost clinical curiosity that mirrored the precision he demanded in his kitchen. When he kneeled down in front of you, he leaned on his haunches and turned you to face him.

The way his eyes narrowed and traced the contours of your face felt as if he were committing every detail to memory. Vincent studied you with a detached curiosity, searching for something beyond mere flesh and bone. His mind raced with thoughts of what it might feel like to truly experience something through you.

"Love," he uttered softly, almost contemplatively. "You're so full of it."

The knife now traced a deliberate path down your body, the blade hovering purposefully, careful not to sever the ropes. It paused near your heart, a focal point that held his attention. He could see it racing beneath your chest, and it fascinated him.

Love—a recipe he might be missing, a secret ingredient.

Suddenly, he pulled you closer, his grip firm yet strangely gentle as he made you sit upright. The movement was controlled, yet carried the same hunger that lingered in his eyes. "I wonder if I can taste it," he whispered, almost to himself, his breath warm against your ear.

He couldn't taste anything. But with you, maybe...