The abyss was no longer just his battleground. It had become his kitchen.

Leonard stood before a slab of obsidian stone, slick with black ichor and bits of flesh still twitching faintly. Around him, the abyss offered its grotesque bounty—piles of limbs, clusters of writhing tendrils, and organs that pulsed as if they still remembered pain.

Above him, lounging across her shifting throne of shadows, the entity watched with wicked glee. “Such delicate hands for a butcher,” she purred. “But I wonder… can they create something worthy of me?”

Leonard didn’t rise to the bait. His knife moved with mechanical precision, slicing through chitin as thick as steel, peeling back layers of corrupted muscle until he reached something softer—something that could, with enough coaxing, become edible.

This was the new game.

Every fight ended with a kill. Every kill became a dish. And if that dish failed to amuse her, the abyss would take a piece of him in return.

His body bore the evidence—fingertips scorched black, patches of skin marked with tiny gnawing mouths, and veins that glowed faintly beneath his flesh, as though the abyss had seasoned him in return.

The fire burned low, fed by a sludge-like oil that dripped from the ceiling. The flames were the color of old bruises, flickering between violet and bruised gold. It wasn’t fire that cooked—it was torment given heat.

Leonard knew this meal mattered.

This wasn’t just to satisfy her hunger. This was a test.

The creature’s heart—still faintly beating—was set to roast. He crushed a stalk of luminescent moss over it, the juice hissing into the flesh, creating a glaze that smelled like rain over a battlefield.

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A nearby eye-stalk vine writhed toward him, its pupil dilating. Leonard sliced it clean, grinding it into a bitter paste to smear across the tongue-like tendrils he’d harvested earlier. Bitterness balances fat. Even here.

Every cut, every motion, was an act of alchemy. He wasn’t just cooking to eat—he was transforming death into power, fear into flavor.

The entity leaned so close he could feel her breath—cold, fragrant with the scent of ancient bones and forgotten dreams. “Careful now, my darling chef. Serve me something bland, and perhaps I’ll make a meal of you instead.”

Leonard didn’t flinch. He seared the dish in a final burst of flame, black smoke rising into the air like a funeral offering.

When it was done, the meal trembled on the plate. Still alive. Still afraid.

He lifted it toward her. “Eat.”

She smiled. The plate hovered into her waiting hands. She took a bite.

The shadows trembled. The walls moaned.

Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, her throat vibrating with a sound that was equal parts delight and agony.

“Oh, Leonard…” she whispered. “You taste like hope giving up.”

He didn’t know whether that meant she liked it. He didn’t care.

Because he wasn’t cooking for praise. He was cooking to stay alive.

The abyss shifted. Another door opened.

But before he could step forward, her voice curled around his spine once more. “From now on,” she purred, “every meal must be finer than the last. After all, my darling butcher, I’m preparing you for something truly… special.”

Leonard exhaled, knife still in hand, knowing this was no longer survival.

This was becoming art in the service of a sadist.

And the only way forward was through perfection… or death.