Gemini cuts a lonely figure, sitting alone in a quiet, dimly lit corner of a restaurant, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on a pristine white plate.
“Funny thing about memories, isn’t it? They’re like little recipes, tucked away—kept safe in some dusty drawer, or a crumpled envelope with faded handwriting. All those bits of sweetness, kept around to comfort you, to warm you up on the cold days. Only, lately, I’ve found mine… well, some of mine have been burnt right off the page. Poof. Gone.”
Her expression shifts, a flash of pain breaking through her smile.
“They say the taste of a meal can bring a memory rushing back, but what about the taste of memories themselves? Imagine them, laid out on a plate by someone you trusted, only for you to find out it was all a little twisted, a little rotten. Makes me wonder what’s real anymore and what’s just… what someone else served up for me to chew on.”
She gives a light, airy laugh, laced with a hint of defiance.
“And that’s where you come in, isn’t it, Anton? The Chef. The Lord High Emperor of Sustenance. They say you don’t make food to fill anyone up. No, your meals don’t nourish. They strip away all the sugarcoated bits and leave people facing things they’ve kept hidden deep inside. Every taste, a truth. Every bite, a piece of themselves they’d rather not see. You’re not out here feeding the hungry—you’re feeding something inside yourself, something starving.”
Gemini’s expression brightens.
“Tell me, Chef, do you like to watch people choke on your truths? Or is it the control you savor most? Maybe I don’t know all the flavors yet, but it seems to me that for a man who claims to show people who they truly are, you hide pretty well behind that apron. You keep every knife sharpened, every dish arranged just so, and yet, isn’t it funny? You still need us all to take a bite and pretend we’re enjoying it. To keep playing along in your little kitchen of horrors.”
Her gaze sharpens, and her voice drops.
“I’ve lost pieces of myself. That much is clear. They were taken from me, just like you try to take pieces of everyone who sits at your table. But guess what, Anton? What you’re dishing out might make others face their fears, but my fears? I’m wearing them on my sleeve, and there’s no taste in the world bitter enough to change that.”
Her voice rises, laced with resolve.
“So let’s get cooking, Anton. Me, with my broken bits, my missing memories, standing here wondering what’s real and what isn’t. And you, with all your tricks, your artistry, your illusions crafted into the perfect courses, as if you alone hold the recipe for everyone’s truth. But Anton, I’m serving something back this time, something even you can’t choke down. It’s resilience, it’s joy, and it’s all that I am, despite what’s been taken. There’s no recipe for that.”
With a defiant smile, she holds her head high.
“So set the table however you like, Chef.”
“I’ll bring the spice.”