Dead Plate Oneshots A Dish Best Served Dark

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The dimly lit bistro, *L’Ombre de l’Assiette*, was bustling with the quiet hum of patrons indulging in its culinary offerings. The establishment had become a staple in the local dining scene, known for its innovative dishes and the enigmatic chef who ran it. Rody Lamoree, the man behind the bistro’s success, was known for his intensity both in and out of the kitchen. His broad shoulders filled the frame of his chef’s coat, and his thick auburn hair was always just as unruly as his temper.

Vincent Charbonneau, the head waiter, was a far cry from his employer. Lean and wiry, Vincent was reserved, his dark eyes watching every interaction with the cold precision of someone who had seen too much. His movements were deliberate, his tone clipped, and he always kept to himself—except when Rody needed him. Their dynamic was peculiar, a dance between two men who couldn’t be more different yet were inexplicably bound together.

Tonight, the tension in the bistro was palpable. The dinner rush had brought with it the usual challenges, but Vincent could sense something different in the air. Rody had been on edge all week, more irritable and demanding than usual. He barked orders in the kitchen with a ferocity that sent shivers down his staff’s spines. Vincent had grown accustomed to this side of his boss, but even he was beginning to feel uneasy.

As the evening wore on, Vincent noticed that Rody was barely touching the dishes he prepared. He would assemble each plate with meticulous care, only to push it aside, muttering under his breath. The staff exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to speak up. Vincent, however, couldn’t ignore it.

After the last patron had left and the kitchen began to quiet down, Vincent approached Rody, who was hunched over the counter, his hands gripping the edge as though he needed to hold on to something.

“Is something wrong with the dishes, Chef?” Vincent’s voice was soft, a stark contrast to Rody’s harsh demeanor.

Rody didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his green eyes were blazing with a mix of frustration and something darker, something that made Vincent’s skin crawl.

“They’re wrong,” Rody muttered. “They don’t taste right.”

Vincent frowned, glancing at the plates on the counter. He knew better than to question Rody’s judgment directly, but the dishes looked perfect to him—beautifully plated, aromatic, and undoubtedly delicious. Yet, he knew Rody wasn’t speaking about the technical aspects. There was something deeper gnawing at him.

“Maybe you’re overthinking it,” Vincent suggested carefully. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

Rody’s eyes snapped up to meet Vincent’s, and for a moment, the intensity of his gaze made Vincent flinch. But he held his ground, his expression unreadable.

“I’m the one who decides what’s right or wrong in my kitchen,” Rody growled, though his voice wavered with an uncertainty that betrayed his words.

Vincent didn’t respond, recognizing that Rody wasn’t truly angry at him. This was something internal, something that had been festering for far too long. But as much as he tried to distance himself, Vincent couldn’t deny the strange pull he felt towards Rody—the way his emotions seemed to mirror his own, the way their lives had become inextricably intertwined in this bistro.

As the silence stretched between them, Rody’s expression softened slightly, his eyes glazing over as if lost in thought.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he admitted quietly, his voice devoid of the usual bravado. “It’s like…everything’s slipping away.”

Vincent’s heart tightened at the vulnerability in Rody’s voice. He had never seen him like this—so lost, so desperate. Without thinking, he reached out and placed a hand on Rody’s arm, offering a small, rare gesture of comfort.

“We’ll figure it out,” Vincent said, his voice firmer now. “Together.”

Rody’s gaze flickered to Vincent’s hand on his arm, and something shifted in his expression. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and for a brief moment, the tension between them seemed to ease.

But the moment was fleeting. Rody’s smile faded, replaced by a look of determination that sent a chill down Vincent’s spine.

“Vincent,” Rody said slowly, his voice low, “there’s something I need to show you.”

Vincent hesitated, the unease from earlier creeping back into his chest. But he nodded, unable to refuse Rody’s request. He followed him as he led the way through the kitchen, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stillness.

Rody led Vincent to a door at the back of the kitchen, one that Vincent had seen many times but never questioned. It led to the basement, a place where only Rody ever ventured. The air grew colder as they descended the narrow staircase, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls.

When they reached the bottom, Rody flicked on a light, revealing a small, cramped space filled with various supplies. But it was the heavy iron door at the far end that caught Vincent’s attention. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint, musty smell wafted through the gap.

Rody approached the door and pushed it open, revealing a dark room beyond. He stepped inside, and after a moment’s hesitation, Vincent followed.

The room was stark, the walls lined with shelves holding an assortment of jars and containers. In the center of the room was a large wooden table, its surface stained and scarred from years of use. But what drew Vincent’s eye was the small, worn-out chair placed against the wall, the leather straps hanging loosely from its arms.

A cold wave of fear washed over Vincent as he took in the scene. This was no ordinary storage room. This was a place where Rody had kept something—someone—restrained.

“Rody…” Vincent’s voice trembled slightly as he turned to face him. “What is this?”

Rody stood by the table, his expression unreadable. His eyes were fixed on Vincent, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

“This,” Rody said slowly, “is where I’ve been working on my true craft.”

Vincent’s heart pounded in his chest. He had always known Rody was intense, but this…this was something else entirely. The room, the chair, the way Rody was looking at him—it all pointed to something far darker than he had ever imagined.

“Your…craft?” Vincent repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rody nodded, his gaze never leaving Vincent’s. “You’ve always been so loyal, Vincent. So dedicated. But I need you to understand—I can’t let you leave.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, and Vincent’s blood ran cold. He took a step back, but Rody was faster, closing the distance between them in an instant.

“You’re the only one who understands,” Rody said, his voice softening as he reached out to brush a strand of Vincent’s hair behind his ear. “You’re the only one who’s ever really been there for me. I need you, Vincent.”

Vincent’s breath hitched as Rody’s fingers trailed down to his neck, his touch both tender and possessive. The fear that had been gnawing at him turned into something else—something twisted and dark that he couldn’t quite define.

“I won’t let you go,” Rody whispered, his lips hovering inches from Vincent’s ear. “Not now. Not ever.”

Before Vincent could react, Rody moved with a speed that caught him off guard. He grabbed Vincent’s wrist and pulled him towards the chair, forcing him down into it. Vincent struggled, but Rody was too strong, his grip unyielding.

“Rody, wait—” Vincent’s voice was cut off as Rody strapped his wrists to the chair, the leather biting into his skin.

Rody’s eyes were wild now, a manic glint that sent a wave of dread crashing over Vincent. But beneath that madness, Vincent could still see the man he had worked with for so long—the man he had come to care for in ways he had never admitted, even to himself.

“Don’t worry,” Rody murmured as he tightened the straps, his voice soothing despite the cruelty of his actions. “I’ll take care of you, Vincent. I’ll make sure you’re always with me.”

Vincent’s heart pounded in his chest as Rody’s words sank in. This wasn’t about loyalty, or dedication, or even obsession. This was about control—about Rody’s desperate need to keep the one person who had ever truly seen him close, no matter the cost.

As Rody stepped back to admire his work, Vincent’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. He was trapped, bound to the chair in a dark basement, with only Rody’s madness for company.

Rody’s gaze softened as he looked down at Vincent, his expression almost tender. “It’ll be alright,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself as much as Vincent. “You’ll see. This is where you belong.”

Vincent’s vision blurred as he fought against the rising tide of fear and despair. He had always known there was something dangerous about Rody, but he had never imagined it would come to this.

Vincent realized with a sinking heart that there was no escape. Rody had him now, and he wasn’t going to let go.

And in the suffocating black silence of the basement, Vincent’s mind raced, searching for any way out of the impossible situation he found himself in. The leather straps bit into his wrists, pinning him to the chair with a finality that filled him with dread.

Above him, Rody moved with a calmness that was almost chilling, as if this was just another step in his nightly routine. He busied himself with something on the wooden table—Vincent couldn’t see what—before turning back to him, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

“I’ve thought about this for a long time, you know,” Rody said, his voice disturbingly casual. “How to keep you close, how to make sure you’d never leave me.”

Vincent tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his words failing him. Rody leaned in, his face inches from Vincent’s, and the scent of whatever he’d been working on filled the air—something sharp and chemical.

“You’re the only one who’s ever understood me, Vincent,” Rody continued, his tone almost affectionate. “The only one who’s ever been there. And I can’t afford to lose that. Not now. Not ever.”

Vincent’s mind flashed through the last few weeks—the tension that had been growing between them, the strange, inexplicable connection that seemed to pull them closer despite their differences. He had always felt something for Rody, something he couldn’t quite explain, but now it was twisted, corrupted by the reality of what Rody had become.

“You don’t have to do this,” Vincent finally managed to say, his voice hoarse. “We can…we can figure something out.”

Rody’s expression softened, and for a moment, Vincent thought he saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the steely determination that had driven Rody to this point.

“I’ve already decided,” Rody said quietly. “This is the only way. I can’t let you go, Vincent. You mean too much to me.”

With that, Rody turned back to the table, picking up a small vial of something dark and viscous. He held it up to the light, watching it swirl inside the glass before turning back to Vincent.

“This will help you relax,” Rody said, almost gently, as he uncorked the vial. “It’s better this way. You won’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ll take care of you.”

Panic surged through Vincent as Rody approached, the vial in hand. He struggled against the straps, but it was useless—Rody had made sure of that.

“Please,” Vincent begged, his voice breaking. “Rody, don’t do this.”

But Rody’s face was set in grim resolve. He pressed the vial to Vincent’s lips, tilting it slightly, and Vincent had no choice but to drink.

The liquid was bitter, burning as it slid down his throat. Almost immediately, a strange numbness began to spread through his body, dulling the panic that had gripped him. His vision blurred, the room around him growing hazy, as if it were slipping away.

Rody watched him intently, his expression unreadable. “It’ll be alright,” he murmured, his voice distant and echoing in Vincent’s ears. “You’ll see.”

As the darkness closed in, Vincent’s thoughts grew sluggish, the last vestiges of fear and despair slipping away like sand through his fingers. And as he drifted into unconsciousness, his mind latched onto one final, desperate thought: **Rody… why?**

But there was no answer, only the cold, enveloping darkness, and the faint sound of Rody’s voice, whispering promises of a twisted, eternal devotion.

And then, there was nothing.

—

Rody stood over Vincent’s limp form, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what he had done—knew that there was no going back. But as he looked down at Vincent, bound and helpless, a strange sense of peace settled over him.

Vincent was his now, in every way that mattered. He had ensured that they would never be apart, that Vincent would never leave him. No one else had ever understood him the way Vincent did, and now, no one else ever would.

With a final, lingering look, Rody turned and left the basement, locking the heavy iron door behind him. The bistro above was silent, the last embers of the evening’s activity dying away. But down below, in the cold, dark basement, Vincent lay still, trapped in the twisted remnants of Rody’s love—a love that had grown into something monstrous and all-consuming.

Rody ascended the stairs, each step echoing hollowly in the empty bistro. Tomorrow, he would return to his routine—preparing dishes, running his kitchen, maintaining the facade of a successful, renowned chef. But tonight, he would sleep easy, knowing that Vincent was safe and sound, right where he belonged.

For in Rody’s mind, there was no greater comfort, no greater satisfaction, than knowing that Vincent would always be his—and his alone.