There was a supply line once. A convoy of trucks meant to bring food to the front.

We were told it was survival. We were told it was hope in crates.

When it finally arrived, it was rotten. Maggots in the bread. Meat gone sour. The smell alone made men vomit before they tasted it.

We ate it anyway.

Because when you’re starving, you don’t care about flavor, you care about living long enough to see the next sunrise.

That’s the difference between you and me, Savor. You treat suffering like a delicacy.

You plate it. You dress it. You act like agony is a meal best served slow, to be admired, critiqued, savored.

But me? I’ve choked down pain raw.

I’ve eaten bullets and bile and every rotten thing war left in my path. Not because it was gourmet.

Because it was there. Because it kept me alive.

You call yourself the Chef. The Lord High Emperor of Sustenance. Every move you make is a dish on the menu. Every scream is a seasoning. Every body you leave broken in the ring is a Michelin star.

But to me, you’re just another cook in a long line of men who thought dressing up death made it something more.

It doesn’t. It never has.

You want to talk about your Crème Brûlée, your Flambé, your Final Course? I’ve eaten worse in the dark with no fork and no fire.

And I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You think pain is art. I think pain is rations.

You savor it. I endure it.

And that’s why you’ll never break me.

Because I don’t need to enjoy it. I just need to outlast it.

When that bell rings, you’re going to set the table, put ole Slade Kincaid on the menu. You’ll try to serve me up like the finest cut.

But this ain’t your kitchen. This is my battlefield.

And on my battlefield, food is fuel and nothing more.

It doesn’t matter how pretty you plate it, it all looks the same when it’s spilling out on the floor.

I’ve heard you say meals strip away illusion, that every bite shows the truth of the man choking it down.

So here’s my truth, Savor:

I’ve eaten worse. I’ve swallowed worse. I’ve lived through worse than anything you can put on my plate.

And when I crush your so-called artistry beneath my boots, you’ll learn what survival tastes like.

Bitter. Cold.

Uncooked.

You want to be the Emperor of Sustenance? Fine. But emperors fall the same way as foot soldiers…

Face down in the dirt, their mouths too full of blood to beg for seconds.

So serve me your Final Course, Chef.

Make it pretty. Make it perfect. Make it hurt.

Because I’ll chew it. I’ll swallow it.

I’ll keep fighting until your whole menu is gone.

And when you’re spent, when the kitchen’s burned down around you and your knives are too dull to cut, I’ll still be standing.

Not satisfied.

Not full.

But alive.

That’s the only flavor that matters. The one you’ll never taste.

Survival.