Sous-Chef

Anton SavorAnton Savor, Promo

The scene opens in the heart of Elysium, Anton Savor’s kitchen. Gleaming counters hold tools arranged with surgical precision, each awaiting its use. A simmering pot releases a fragrant plume into the air, its contents meticulously measured. Anton stands at the helm, his hands clasped behind his back.

“When you step into my kitchen, Captain, you find yourself immersed in a world of purpose. Every tool, every ingredient, every movement has meaning. Nothing is wasted. This is the heart of a masterpiece, a place where vision leads, and every hand that follows trusts in the design of something greater.

But not every hand holds the same weight. Some craft the vision, while others simply carry it out. This is the role of the sous-chef, Captain. A vital piece of the process, but a piece nonetheless. They don’t choose the menu. They don’t select the ingredients. They execute what’s given to them, believing that their work is their own. When in reality, it’s always been mine.”

Anton’s voice softens. 

“When that file landed in your hands, you didn’t question it, did you? You didn’t pause to wonder where it came from or why it was given to you. You acted without hesitation, following its trail like a sous-chef chasing orders. Because in that moment, it gave you something you desperately needed. Purpose. It handed you a chance to don your cape and play hero once again.

But you didn’t see the truth, Captain. That file wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t an opportunity to showcase your heroism. It was a recipe, carefully crafted by my hand. I chose the ingredients. I measured the portions. I presented it to you, knowing that you wouldn’t resist. Because that’s the thing about sous-chefs, Captain. They follow the lead, foolishly mistaking compliance for control.”

Anton’s gaze sharpens as he leans slightly forward.

“You flaunted that file as though it were your victory. You brandished it like a sword, desperate to cut down Mister Sunshine. But every self-righteous move you made only reinforced one undeniable truth: that you weren’t holding the knife. You were the one being sharpened. Every step you took, every decision you made, was orchestrated by me.

But that’s the beauty of this kitchen, Captain. Everything has its place, its role. Even you. Because you see, in my world, you were never the architect. You were never the force driving this story forward. You were just another instrument, wielded at my discretion.

While you paraded yourself as a hero, I was the one pulling the strings, crafting the narrative you so desperately needed to feel relevant. Because you’re not the authority you pretend to be, Captain. You’re the one in the back, following the orders, playing the part someone else handed you.”

Anton’s voice lowers to a cold, deliberate whisper. 

“But at Thunderstrike, you will finally understand the truth. You weren’t carving justice, Captain. You were nothing more than a tool moving to the rhythm of my design, following a recipe you never even knew existed. And when the final plate is served, the world will see you for what you really are – a faceless pair of hands in Anton Savor’s kitchen.”