The scene opens in the heart of Elysium, Anton Savor’s kitchen. The counters are spotless, the tools perfectly aligned, and a single pot simmers gently on the stove.

The space is quieter than usual, the absence of many workers felt like a faint hum in the air. Anton stands at the center, his hands moving with practiced precision.

“Have you ever experienced the feeling of betrayal, Hatchet? Because I have. 

Weeks ago, my brigade, my so called team, turned their backs and walked away. Aprons thrown to the ground, convinced that their absence would cripple me. And perhaps, for some chefs it might.

But I’m not just ‘some chef.’ I am Anton fucking Savor. Elysium was never built on their hands. It was built on mine.

Every plate of perfection that has ever left these counters was born from my vision. They may have been part of the process, but they were never the reason for my success.

Because even now, with fewer hands to share the weight, I still stand and I still endure.”

Anton moves to the stove, stirring the pot with deliberate care.

“That’s the difference between mastery and mediocrity, Hatchet. A master thrives even in adversity, while a pretender crumbles without their crutch. 

I don’t need them, you see. My art, my sustenance, comes from within. It is self contained.

But you? You’re no master. Your Gathering isn’t your brigade. It’s your lifeline. They sustain you. They prop you up, terrified that if they waver for even a moment, you’ll turn on them. 

You don’t inspire them, Hatchet. You trap them. You bleed them dry. You’ve built nothing, yet you’ve taken everything. Like a parasite, you feed off their desperation and call it power.”

Anton steps back from the stove, lifting the lid to let the fragrant aroma rise.

“Parasites, you know, can only survive as long as their host endures. They don’t thrive. They cling. Every move they make depends on what they can take from something greater than themselves. 

That’s all you are, Hatchet. A parasite dressed in chaos, feeding on the ruin you leave behind. Because without your Gathering, you’re not a leader. You’re not a master. You’re just a lonely fucking plonker in smeared makeup, scrambling to find meaning.”

Anton places the lid back on the pot and folds his hands behind his back. 

“But at Warzone, Hatchet, I will open their eyes. I will expose the cracks in your foundation and the rot festering beneath it for all to see. When they witness the truth – the lies you’ve fed them, the fear you’ve used to keep them in line – they will abandon you.

And when they do, only then will you understand what true solitude feels like. But unlike me, you won’t thrive in it. Instead, you will crumble under the emptiness they leave behind.

Because without them, you are nothing. And when the last thread of your empire unravels, you will see the reality of what you’ve become.”

Anton’s gaze sharpens as he steps forward, his voice dropping to a quiet, deliberate whisper.

“In my kitchen, Hatchet, not only do parasites not survive. They are purged from existence.”