The silence after his threat hung like a butcher’s hook, swaying between them.

The entity’s smile returned—slow, predatory. “Oh, my darling butcher…” she whispered, “You really thought this was about winning?”

The ground beneath Leonard split open, and from the abyss, a hundred hands reached out, each one wearing his face. They clawed at his boots, at his legs, pulling him down into a pit made of himself.

The walls of the kitchen tore apart, folding back to reveal something far worse—a place that existed beneath the abyss, where even shadows feared to crawl.

Leonard’s blade slashed through the first wave of hands, but they didn’t bleed. They laughed, their mouths stretching into wide, mocking grins. “Chef, chef, chef…” they sang, voices layered and broken. “What’s the matter? Don’t want to be on the menu?”

The entity watched with delight, fingers tapping on her throne made of Leonard’s own regrets. “You didn’t think I’d let you steal my kitchen, did you?”

The fire pits roared to life, but this time, they didn’t burn ingredients. They burned memories. Leonard’s childhood screamed from the flames. His comrades’ dying breaths curled in the smoke. Every time he had killed to survive, every time he had cooked to forget, it all burned—and the scent was delicious.

Leonard’s knees buckled, but he didn’t fall. He slammed his blade into the ground, the force cracking the floor beneath his feet, sending a shockwave through the kitchen. The hands released him—briefly.

“If I have to carve my way through my own past, so be it.”

The kitchen answered.

The walls bulged, vomiting out creatures he had already killed—but wrong. They were half-cooked mockeries of his work, twisted versions of meals he had once perfected. Burnt husks with too many teeth. Raw flesh crawling with fingers instead of maggots.

And leading them… was him.

A perfect clone, dressed in his ruined gear, but smiling—calm, serene, with eyes that had long since stopped fearing death. This version of Leonard wasn’t a survivor. He was what Leonard would become if he gave up his humanity completely.

The clone raised his own blade, slick with kitchen grease and blood.

The entity’s laughter filled the air. “You want my throne, Leonard? Then cook against yourself. Let’s see which version of you deserves to live.”

The clone attacked first. Fast. Precise. Every technique Leonard had mastered was mirrored back at him, but perfected—cleaner, faster, crueler.

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Their blades clashed, sparks flying, flames licking at their boots as they fought across a kitchen made from both of their memories. Each step rewrote the space, pulling recipes from his mind, spilling them across the counters and walls, pages ripped from his soul.

Leonard fought like a man trying to carve himself out of existence.

The clone fought like someone who had already won.

They shattered cutting boards, flipped boiling cauldrons, stabbed each other with kitchen knives, and used still-screaming ingredients as shields.

It was not a battle.

It was a cook-off to the death.

The entity’s eyes shone with glee, her fingers twitching with every cut, every perfect counter, every brutal slice. “Oh, this is better than I hoped,” she whispered.

Leonard was losing ground. The clone didn’t hesitate. It didn’t feel pain, didn’t hold back, didn’t fear death—because it was already dead inside.

The real Leonard knew one thing could tip the scales.

He grabbed the nearest severed limb, still twitching with abyssal venom, and took a bite.

The clone froze.

Leonard’s body convulsed, veins bulging, eyes going wild. The abyss screamed in protest as he devoured something that had no business being food.

His strength spiked. His senses tore open wider than they ever should.

He attacked—not with precision, but with fury.

Blade to blade, tooth to tooth, hand to throat, he ripped his clone apart, carving through his own face, his own ribs, his own beating heart.

The clone collapsed in a heap of its own ingredients—a failed dish.

Leonard stood over it, trembling, covered in blood and smoke, body half broken but still standing. Still the chef.

The entity clapped slowly. “You didn’t win, you know. You just delayed your own damnation.”

Leonard wiped his blade clean against his sleeve, eyes burning with something sharper than rage.

“Then I’ll keep delaying it,” he said, voice ragged. “Every damn day, until there’s nothing left of you—or me—to cook.”

The kitchen trembled.

The entity smiled wider than ever.

“Such spirit,” she purred. “Alright then, my beautiful butcher…”

She leaned forward, shadows curling around her smile. “Now, since you made my entertainment even sweeter, tell me…pleasure or power?”

The flames whispered her words, the walls echoed them, the broken clone’s lips formed them even in death.

Leonard stood there, blade still slick with his own blood, knowing that no matter what he answered—he was already cooking his own fate.