Leonard woke with his back against cold stone, the air thick with the scent of burnt memories and phantom blood. The book still pulsed faintly against his chest, its pages settling after their violent feast.

But the weight on his shoulders wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was her.

Even with his eyes closed, he felt her—wrapped around him like a cloak spun from smoke and silk. Her presence wasn’t heavy, but it clung to him, curling along the edge of every breath, every thought, every twitch of muscle.

She wasn’t gone. She wasn’t even hiding.

She was part of him now, nestled between his ribs, whispering secrets into the marrow of his bones.

Leonard sat up, muscles stiff, body aching from wounds both physical and unseen. The shadows shifted slightly—her form briefly emerging beside him, sitting in silence, mirroring his posture.

She looked almost peaceful. Almost.

“Comfortable?” Leonard’s voice was a rasp, raw from screaming memories.

Her smile cut through the dark like a knife made of moonlight. “You wear me well.”

Leonard stood, brushing blood and dirt from his tattered clothes. His blade was already in his hand—not to fight, but because he didn’t trust himself without it.

“Don’t get too cozy,” he muttered. “I’m not your throne.”

The shadows curled around his feet, caressing his boots like affectionate snakes. “A throne? No, no, my beautiful butcher.” She stretched lazily, her form shifting between elegant woman and flowing ink. “You’re something far more valuable than that.”

Leonard started walking, forcing his legs to obey. The corridor ahead twisted into something vaguely recognizable—a warped copy of places he’d fought before, battlefields dragged from his memory and stitched into a broken path.

She drifted beside him, half-floating, half-stalking. “You’re a story that can’t end. A recipe that refuses to be written. A meal no god can swallow.”

Leonard said nothing. Talking to her felt like arguing with the air itself—she was everywhere, and nowhere, and always too close.

They walked in silence, until the path led to a kitchen.

Not the abyssal one.

His old kitchen.

The one from before. Before war. Before blood. Before survival became hunger. The simple wooden counters, the dented pots, the uneven stove burners. It all stood there, too real to be a dream, too wrong to be reality.

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His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. “What the hell is this?”

Her voice slid across his shoulders. “Your reward.”

Leonard stepped inside. The moment his foot touched the floor, the kitchen groaned—like an old house remembering a fire. The air tasted like ash and childhood.

On the counter sat a plate.

One plate. Covered. Waiting.

Leonard didn’t want to lift the lid. Every instinct screamed at him not to. But his hand moved anyway—like a butcher forced to carve his own reflection.

Under the lid sat a perfect dish.

The meal he never got to serve.

He remembered it instantly—the last meal he tried to make for his family before the war came, before the bombs fell, before his hands became tools for killing instead of cooking.

It was still warm. Still perfect.

Leonard swallowed hard. “Why?”

She leaned against the counter beside him, eyes gleaming. “Because some scars deserve salt.”

Leonard closed his eyes, willing the memory away. But the book refused. It flipped to a new page, and there—etched in perfect clarity—was the recipe. The exact one. The dish that should’ve been his legacy.

He could cook it again. Right here. Right now.

Or he could destroy it.

Her fingers traced the edge of the counter, her voice soft for once. “Do you remember what you said that day? Before the world ended?”

Leonard’s jaw clenched. “I said…”

The words choked in his throat.

“I said, ‘This is just the beginning. We’ll eat like kings when I come back.’”

The shadows laughed softly, but there was no mockery in it. Only sadness.

“Eat it, or burn it,” she whispered. “Either way… it’s yours.”

Leonard stared at the plate. The food he’d made with hope, before hope became a liability.

His hands trembled.

He lifted the fork.

The first bite tasted like yesterday’s dreams.

The second bite tasted like gunpowder and blood.

The third bite…

Tasted like her smile curling at the edge of memory.

Leonard ate the past, one forkful at a time, until the plate was clean, and the kitchen dissolved into ash and smoke.

She wrapped around him again, arms gentle, breath cold. “I’ll enjoy this journey, Leonard.”

Her voice curled into his ear, soft as silk. “Every step. Every bite. Every fall.”

Leonard didn’t reply.

He just walked forward, blade in hand, with his ghost as his shadow.

And the book turned the page.