The kitchen was my fortress, and the rolling pin was my weapon.
I worked with a manic intensity, channeling all the fear, confusion, and adrenaline from the village into the dough. Fold. Roll. Chill. Repeat.
I knew what they were now. Or at least, I suspected. The glowing eyes in the diner, the inhuman size of the guards, the "beasts" in the woods... it all pointed to one terrifying conclusion.
I was cooking for monsters.
But monsters had to eat, too. And if I wanted to survive long enough to get my next paycheck, I had to make sure this was the best damn breakfast Monsieur Aurelien had ever tasted.
I used the high-fat butter I had risked my life to get. I laminated the dough until it was paper-thin layers of perfection.
By 8:00 AM, the kitchen smelled like heaven—melted chocolate, t
