The Cook's Mask
The clock struck three, and the clanging of metal heads echoed through the living room like a funeral bell, announcing the end of one chapter of blood and the beginning of another—just as dark, just as cruel.
The air inside the villa felt heavier than before, thick with the smell of gunpowder, blood, sweat, and fear—a suffocating mixture that pressed against the lungs before a single breath could be drawn.
Upstairs, Magda and Daniel stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a faint, hesitant light that flickered across the large mirror facing the bed. They spoke in hushed tones, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Magda's eyes were fixed on the table in front of her, scattered with strange tools—silicone molds, dyes, threads, and brushes.
"How can I make hi
