—
Rody’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stood over Vincent’s lifeless body. The broken wine bottle in his hand dripped with blood, the jagged edges stained crimson. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight-Vincent, the cold and calculating chef who had manipulated and tormented him, now lay crumpled on the floor, his neck torn open, blood pooling around him.
The bistro was eerily silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire that was beginning to spread, consuming everything in its path. The flames reflected in Rody’s wide, bloodshot eyes, and he felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were watching the scene unfold from a distance.
He had done it. He had finally killed Vincent. The monster was dead.
Rody stumbled back, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. He glanced around the burning kitchen, the heat growing more intense with each passing second. He needed to get out-needed to leave this nightmare behind.
But as he turned to flee, the world around him began to warp and twist. The flames seemed to bend and stretch, the heat distorting the very air. Rody’s vision blurred, and a strange dizziness overcame him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, the broken wine bottle slipping from his grasp.
The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was Vincent’s cold, dead eyes staring back at him, unblinking.
—
Rody awoke with a start, gasping for air as if he had been drowning. His heart pounded in his chest, and it took a moment for him to register his surroundings. He wasn’t in the burning bistro anymore. The air was cool, and there was no scent of smoke or fire.
As he sat up, clutching the damp sheets beneath him, Rody realized something was terribly wrong. The room around him was not his cramped, messy apartment. The walls were too clean, the furniture too polished, and there was a faint aroma of lemon and freshly baked bread in the air.
He was in an apartment.
His apartment, or at least it looked like it. The familiar clutter, the peeling wallpaper, the faint smell of old coffee-all of it was the same. But something was off. The details were too sharp, too vivid, as if they had been pulled from a memory and rendered into something more… tangible.
Rody sat up slowly, his head pounding. His clothes were different-clean, pressed, and unfamiliar. He was wearing a chef’s jacket, but it wasn’t the cheap knockoff he had worn to work in the bistro. This one was high-quality, with his name-**Chef Lamoree**-stitched onto the breast.
“Chef, you’re awake.”
Rody’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of the voice. He turned sharply, his breath catching in his throat as he saw who had spoken.
Vincent.
Vincent, alive, standing in the doorway of the apartment, his hands nervously clutching a tray with a cup of coffee. But this Vincent was different-his posture was hunched, his eyes downcast, and his whole demeanor screamed timid, anxious, even… shy.
“Vincent?” Rody’s voice was barely a whisper, his mind reeling. This couldn’t be real. He had killed him. He had watched the life drain from his eyes, had felt the warmth of his blood on his hands. This had to be some kind of sick joke, a nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from.
Vincent flinched slightly at the sound of his name, then forced a small, hesitant smile. “I… I made you some coffee. Thought you might need it after… after last night.”
Rody stared at him, the words not fully registering. “Last night?” he echoed, his voice hollow.
Vincent nodded, looking uncomfortable. “The dinner service. It was… stressful. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard lately, Chef. I… I worry about you.”
Rody felt his blood run cold. This was wrong. All of it. The apartment, the clothes, Vincent… It was as if the world had flipped upside down, and he was trapped in some twisted version of reality where nothing made sense.
But it didn’t stop there. As the day went on, Rody found himself slipping deeper into this bizarre, alternate life. Everyone he encountered-the other chefs, the waitstaff, even the customers-treated him as if he were the chef, the mastermind behind the bistro’s success. And Vincent… Vincent was just a waiter, shy and nervous, constantly seeking Rody’s approval.
The kitchen was a place of nightmares. Every dish he created seemed to come from muscle memory he didn’t know he had, his hands moving with a precision that terrified him. He cooked with an intensity that bordered on obsession, his mind racing to keep up with the unfamiliar techniques and recipes. It was as if the knowledge had been implanted in his brain, forcing him to play a role he didn’t understand.
Vincent hovered around him, always close but never imposing. His nervousness grated on Rody’s frayed nerves, but it was the look in Vincent’s eyes that disturbed him the most. The way he watched Rody with a mixture of admiration and fear, as if Rody were something to be revered and feared in equal measure.
The hours bled into one another, and by the time the bistro was closed and the staff had gone home, Rody was left alone with Vincent in the dark, silent kitchen. The tension between them was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken words and twisted emotions.
“Vincent,” Rody finally said, his voice rough as he broke the silence. “What is this? Why… why are you here?”
Vincent looked up at him, confusion and fear flickering across his face. “Chef? I… I don’t understand. I’ve always been here. This is… this is where I belong, isn’t it?”
Rody’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. “No. This isn’t right. I killed you. I *killed* you, Vincent. You shouldn’t be here.”
Vincent’s eyes widened in shock, and he took a step back, the tray he was holding slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. “Killed… me?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
Rody’s chest tightened with a mixture of rage and confusion. “You were a monster. You *made* me do it. I had no choice.”
Vincent’s lower lip quivered, and tears welled up in his eyes. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chef. I’ve only ever wanted to help you, to make you proud…”
Rody’s heart pounded in his chest, the dissonance between his memories and the reality before him growing unbearable. This Vincent was so different from the man he had killed, so meek, so vulnerable. It didn’t make any sense.
“I don’t know what this is,” Rody said, his voice shaking with anger and fear, “but it isn’t real. None of this is real.”
Vincent’s tears spilled over, and he shook his head, as if trying to deny the reality of Rody’s words. “Please, Chef… don’t say that. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Rody felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. The way Vincent was looking at him-like he was everything, like he was the center of Vincent’s world-was too much. It was wrong. It was twisted.
“Stop it,” Rody snapped, his voice cracking. “Just… stop it.”
Vincent flinched, his body trembling as he tried to hold back his sobs. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
Rody’s hands shook as he pressed them to his temples, trying to block out the sound of Vincent’s crying. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had to wake up. He had to find a way out of this nightmare.
But as the night wore on and the hours dragged by, Rody found no escape. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of Vincent’s bloodied body flashed before him, only to be replaced by the sight of the living, breathing Vincent standing before him, pleading for forgiveness.
It was driving him mad.
Finally, as the first light of dawn began to creep through the windows, Rody couldn’t take it anymore. He turned on Vincent, his eyes wild with desperation.
“If this is real,” Rody hissed, “then prove it. Show me something-anything-that makes sense.”
Vincent looked at him, confusion and fear etched into his features. “I… I don’t know what you mean, Chef…”
“Just *do* it!” Rody roared, his voice echoing through the empty kitchen.
Vincent flinched, then slowly nodded, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “Alright,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “If… if that’s what you want.”
Rody watched as Vincent hesitantly approached one of the kitchen counters. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were fighting against some unseen force. He reached for a knife and held it out to Rody, his hand shaking.
“Here,” Vincent said, his voice trembling. “If… if this isn’t real, then… you can… you can kill me. I won’t stop you.”
Rody stared at the knife, his heart pounding in his chest. This was insane. None of this made sense. But the knife in Vincent’s hand was real, the sharp glint of the blade catching the light in a way that sent a chill down Rody’s spine.
Vincent’s eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “If that’s what you need to do Chef”
Rody’s grip tightened on the knife, the cold metal pressing against his palm. Vincent’s innocent eyes, full of fear and confusion, were still fixed on him. This Vincent was nothing like the cold, calculating chef he had killed. This Vincent was timid, nervous, and deeply troubled by Rody’s erratic behavior.
“Why…” Vincent’s voice trembled, “why do you keep saying you killed me? I don’t understand.”
Rody’s breath hitched. He couldn’t make sense of it either. Everything about this situation felt unreal. The knife in his hand, the sight of Vincent’s pleading eyes-it was all too much. He had been certain that he had killed Vincent, and now, here was a version of him who was nothing like the man he had tortured and murdered.
“No,” Rody said, his voice breaking. “You don’t understand. I… I killed you. I watched you die. I burned the bistro. Everything should be over!”
Vincent shook his head, his eyes wide with confusion and hurt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember anything like that. I’ve been working here, trying to do my best, and you’ve been pushing yourself so hard. I’m just trying to help.”
The sincerity in Vincent’s voice, the genuine fear and confusion, made Rody’s chest tighten. His grip on the knife wavered as the realization began to sink in. This Vincent didn’t know anything about the murder or the fire. He was just a scared, innocent waiter, he didn’t understand.
Rody took a shaky breath, his mind racing. This Vincent was not the monster he had killed. This Vincent was part of some twisted reality that he couldn’t fully grasp. The knife felt heavy in his hand, a symbol of the violence he had inflicted and the pain he was now causing.
“You’re not him,” Rody said, his voice trembling. “You’re not the monster I killed. But this… this isn’t real. None of this makes sense.”
Vincent took a cautious step closer, his eyes filled with empathy and sadness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,Chef, but I’m here now. I just want to understand and help.”
Rody’s heart pounded as he struggled with his emotions. He could feel the weight of his actions, the guilt and fear pressing down on him. The world around him seemed to close in, the familiar apartment feeling claustrophobic and nightmarish.
“Help?” Rody echoed, his voice barely a whisper. “How can you help me when I’ve already…”
His words trailed off, choked by the lump in his throat. He dropped the knife, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. The reality of his situation hit him with full force. This wasn’t the place or time for violence. This wasn’t the world he had fought so hard to escape.
Vincent, still trembling, cautiously approached Rody, his voice gentle. “Let’s just talk. Maybe if we can figure out what’s happening, we can make sense of it together.”
Rody nodded numbly, sinking into a chair as the full weight of his actions began to crash down on him. His hands shook as he buried his face in them, overwhelmed by the enormity of his mistakes.
Vincent knelt beside him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I’m here,” he said softly. “We’ll get through this. We’ll find out what’s real and what’s not.”
Rody looked up, his eyes red and tired. The surreal quality of the situation remained, but Vincent’s presence, however confusing, offered a semblance of comfort. He realized that this Vincent, though innocent, might be his only anchor in a world that had turned into a grotesque parody of itself.
As the first light of dawn filtered through the apartment’s windows, Rody and Vincent began to piece together the fragments of their distorted reality. The nightmare of the bistro and the violence that had occurred seemed like a distant memory, eclipsed by the strange reality Rody now faced.
The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with the terror of what might still be lurking in the shadows of Rody’s fractured mind. But as he sat there with Vincent, the lines between reality and illusion blurred, and the only certainty he had was that he was not alone in this nightmarish existence.
—
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