Cooking is an art of precision. And no dish exemplifies this better than the soufflé. A wonder of delicacy, balance, and timing, it demands patience and care to rise to perfection. 

In the hands of a master it becomes a testament to skill. But in careless hands, it devolves into nothing more than a lifeless ruin.

Aurora, you are the cook who believes that chaos is the secret ingredient. You whip the batter furiously, over mixing it without thought or care. Convinced that force alone can yield greatness. 

You chase the thrill of the process, the excitement of seeing something form. But in your recklessness, you destroy the very structure that holds the soufflé together.

Because what you create isn’t a dish, Aurora. It’s a disaster waiting to unfold. The air you churn into your batter doesn’t give it life. It leaves it weak. 

And when the oven door opens, your creation will implode as it always does. Chaos has no place in the kitchen. And your thrill seeking will always result in defeat.

Narcissa, you treat the soufflé as a pedestal for your vanity. You cover it in edible gold and crystalline sugar, hoping that the audience will be so mesmerized by its beauty that they won’t notice the emptiness within. 

For you, it’s not about the flavors or the craft. It’s about the applause. The spectacle.

But food is more than a performance. A soufflé that can’t hold its own weight, no matter how dazzling it appears will always crumble at the first touch. 

You’ve mistaken decoration for substance, Narcissa. And once the applause fades, your creation will fade with it. Because beauty may catch the eye, but only depth leaves a lasting impression.

Burned Man, your approach is no less damaging, but it comes from a different place. You crank the oven to its highest setting, convinced that more heat will make it rise faster. 

Each degree you add reflects your anger, your desperation to create something powerful enough to mask your scars.

But heat without control is destruction. Your soufflé rises too quickly, its edges burning as the center remains raw. And when you pull it from the oven, it will collapse under its own weight, leaving nothing but ash and ruin. 

Because perfection cannot be forced, Burned Man. And your inability to see that only ensures your downfall.

Each of you have failed the soufflé in your own way. Aurora, you overbeat the batter, chasing mayhem at the expense of stability. Narcissa, you hid your flaws beneath a lustrous facade, hoping that no one would notice. Burned Man, you pushed the heat too far, leaving only devastation in your wake.

But as for me? I do not fail. My soufflé rises because I understand what you cannot. That true mastery demands patience, balance, and intent. It requires control, a quality that none of you possess.

When the oven door closes for the last time, none of you will be remembered for your attempts. Your failed soufflés will be discarded, swept away with the remnants of your mediocrity.

Because in this kitchen, you were never chefs. You were always the mess… destined to be wiped away.