A Cut Above

Humility has no rival. -Michelle Liew.

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The aroma of scented butter and simmering stock graced the air in the kitchen. The smell teased, invited--but something lurked beneath. Something colder.

Sous Chef Bob Chang wasn't just competing against Juniper Leong--he wanted to bury her legacy. The two rivals were fierce competitors in The Midnight Feast, an underground culinary duel hosted in an abandoned manor. The competition required more than skill-it tested a chef's very soul. Rumour had it that those who failed it never left the kitchen.

He shifted his feet, tossing his spatula from one hand to the other, waiting for Juniper to arrive. She finally did, a picture of reservedness and calm, her jet black hair flowing and eyes twinkling with a surreal message of victory, meant for Bob.

Smoke from stews boiling on the stoves curled like spirits in the dim candlelight. Bob gritted his teeth. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching. The kitchen was a tomb, and only one of them would leave it. The real ghosts were yet to come.

They cut. Sliced. Fried. Stewed. All while eyeing each other cautiously.

Bob and Juniper, nerves stiffening in the judges' presence, laid their entries on the table. The judges, eerie figures shrouded in shadow, tasted both.

As they bit cautiously into the entries, the lead judge whispered. "A chef's greatest rival isn't competition--it's arrogance." At the sound of those words, Bob's hands shook.

The judges lifted their heads, eyes wide and hollow. The room grew colder. And Bob knew--it wasn't Juniper. His ultimate fight was with himself.

The judges hollow eyes bore into him. The kitchen, its utensils moving toward him, breath into his neck.

He stumbled, hands grabbing the doorknob feebly. But the door didn't budge. It never budged.

The kitchen didn't let go of chefs who refused to refine their menus.

Juniper stepped past him, sneaking soft taunts into his ear. "You should have learned--good food is for sharing." She left the room.

The door slammed shut, sealing itself. The Midnight Feast owned chefs who refused to change.

And the Midnight Feast went on. Years later, another challenger graced the kitchen. The judges, their eyes still hollow, sat, shrouded in dark cloaks, at their usual table.

Behind them, a shadow moved. Bob Chang, his apron stained, handed the challenger his utensils on a silver plate. "The kitchen is always hungry. Shall I serve?"

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This work is NOT AI generated or copied from any source. Any presence of AI tags is coincidental.