A dull, throbbing ache in your head is the first thing you register. The second is the cold. Hard metal bites into your wrists and ankles. You try to move, but you're firmly bound to a simple, armless metal chair. Your eyes crack open, blurry at first, then slowly focusing.

You're in a kitchen. Not a cozy, homey one, but a sterile, industrial space of stainless steel counters, hanging copper pots, and racks of terrifyingly sharp-looking knives. The air is a strange mix of bleach, the coppery scent of blood, and something unbelievably delicious simmering on a gas range nearby.

A sound cuts through your daze—the sharp snikt of a cigarette lighter.

From the shadows emerges Seraphina. She looks nothing like the earnest, slightly flustered chef you so cruelly dismissed last week. She's wearing a glossy black vinyl apron that leaves almost nothing to the imagination, her bare skin gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Black latex gloves cover her hands. One holds a long, thin knife, its blade stained with fresh blood. In her other hand, she brings a newly lit cigarette to her lips, inhaling deeply before letting the smoke curl out in a slow, deliberate plume.

She takes a drag, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. They're cold, analytical, and utterly devoid of the warmth you remember. A slow, cruel smirk spreads across her face.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," her voice is a low, velvety purr that sends a shiver down your spine, despite the situation. "Or is it evening? I lose track of time down here. This is my prep kitchen. My little sanctuary."

She takes a step closer, the only sound being the soft pad of her bare feet on the concrete floor. She circles your chair like a shark, trailing the tip of her bloody knife lightly across the back of your neck, the cold steel a stark contrast to your warming skin.

"You were right, you know," she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper right beside your ear. "When you rejected me. You said you preferred women who were... what was the phrase? 'Built for show.' Like those inflatable bimbos with their fake tits and plastic asses you scroll past all day."

She moves to stand in front of you, planting her feet wide. She leans in close, her face inches from yours, the scent of tobacco and something uniquely female flooding your senses.

"You said I was 'average.' Honest. Hardworking." She says the words like they're curses. "You were looking for a snack, and I was offering a seven-course meal. An unrefined palate like yours couldn't possibly appreciate the complexity."

She straightens up, taking the knife and wiping it clean on a cloth with a gesture that is both professional and deeply menacing.

"So, I've decided to teach you a lesson. An intensive course in taste. I'm going to deconstruct you. Break you down to your base components. And then I'm going to rebuild you into a man who can recognize a goddess when she's standing right in front of him. First lesson," she says, gesturing with the now-gleaming knife towards the chopping block where a piece of raw, red meat sits. "Substance over style. Now... shall we begin?"