The silence that fell over the restaurant was a welcome relief. It was a comfortable quiet, filled with the satisfaction of a hard night's work. Jax and Elara moved through the dining room, clearing the last of the plates and glasses. They worked in a synchronized rhythm, a team that had known each other for years, not days.
When the last table was wiped down, Jax went behind the bar. He pulled out a bottle of good red wine he'd been saving and two clean glasses.
"I think we earned this," he said, his voice a little hoarse.
Elara's tired face broke into a genuine smile. "I think we did."
He poured them each a glass, and they sat on the tall stools at the bar, looking out over their successful, chaotic, wonderful dining room. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows, making the room feel intimate and safe.
"We did it," Elara said, her voice soft with a hint of awe. She took a sip of wine. "I've worked in a lot of restaurants, Jax. I've never seen a first service like that. Ever. It was like a tidal wave."
Jax allowed himself a real, unguarded smile. He looked at her, the candlelight catching the warm glow in her eyes. "We make a good team."
"Yeah," she said, her smile turning a little shy. "We do."
The moment hung between them, thick with unspoken feelings. This was the prize. This quiet, shared victory. This feeling of normalcy, of building something good with someone good. This was the reason he had made his monstrous bargain.
Elara swirled the wine in her glass, her expression turning thoughtful, analytical. The manager was gone, and the culinary student had returned. "I have to ask, though," she began, her tone shifting from celebratory to intensely curious. "That risotto everyone was ordering… I managed to steal a spoonful from a plate in the kitchen before it went out."
Jax's stomach gave a guilty thump. He kept his expression neutral.
"The texture was scientifically impossible," she said, looking at him directly now. "I've spent a whole semester just on rice. The way the grains were perfectly al dente, each one distinct, but the sauce was creamy and emulsified with zero starch break… it's a paradox. It defies the basic chemistry of cooking. To get that creaminess, you need the starch from the rice to break down, which should make the grains soft."
She gave a light, disbelieving laugh, but her eyes were sharp, searching his for a reaction. "Your 'consultant' isn't just a chef, Jax. He's a magician."
The word hung in the air. He was a magician. She had no idea how right she was. Jax gave a noncommittal shrug, trying to look unfazed. "He's just very, very good at his job."
The moment of connection was broken, replaced by a thin veil of suspicion. Soon after, Elara finished her wine and slid off the stool. "I should get going," she said. "I'll be in early to go through the receipts and start the bookkeeping."
"You don't have to," he said. "Get some rest."
"I want to," she insisted. "Goodnight, Jax."
"Goodnight, Elara."
The moment the bell on the door chimed, announcing her departure, the warm, celebratory atmosphere in the room vanished. The shadows seemed to grow colder, longer.
Kazimir's voice, silent during their shared victory, returned with the cold finality of a closing steel door. "She's too smart. A liability. Her curiosity will be a problem. You need to be more careful."
"She's the reason I did this," Jax thought back, a flare of anger rising in him. "To build this with her."
"A foolish reason," Kazimir retorted, his mental voice devoid of any emotion. "But a potent one. It makes you a predictable, and therefore effective, hunter. No matter. The success of tonight simply accelerates the payment schedule. Your account is flush with my power. The bill is due again."
Jax felt a familiar cold dread. "Already? It's been one day."
"Momentum, Chef. We have momentum. Besides, your technique is now flawless for mortal food. But to maintain this level of impossible success, and to prepare you for more… complex acquisitions, you will need better ingredients. Ingredients that are not of this world."
"What are you talking about?"
"Go to your dry pantry. The top shelf, on the right."
Jax pushed himself off the barstool and walked into the small, dark pantry. He flicked on the light. The shelves were neatly organized with flour, sugar, and dried pasta. It was all exactly as he had left it. Except for one thing.
On the top right shelf, where there had been nothing before, now sat a small, ornate box. It was crafted from a dark, polished wood and lined with black velvet. It looked ancient, expensive, and completely out of place.
With a sense of trepidation, he reached up and took it down. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. He lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on the velvet, were a dozen peppercorns. But they were unlike any peppercorns he had ever seen. They were a deep, obsidian black, but they seemed to shimmer with a faint, internal red light, like the embers of a dying fire. A wave of palpable heat and an impossibly complex, spicy aroma wafted out of the box. It smelled of smoke, cinnamon, and something else, something primal and dangerous.
"Hell-flame Peppercorns," Kazimir's voice explained, a note of pride in his tone. "Sourced from my personal garden. They don't just add heat to a dish, Jax. They unlock the taster's deepest, most repressed passions. Anger, love, ambition, greed. Use them wisely. They are… potent."
This was a new level of magic. It was tangible. He could hold it in his hand. This was the Devil's Pantry.
As Jax stared at the impossible spice, Kazimir's voice turned as cold as a morgue slab. "This next soul is… complex. It has a vintage of pure, calculated cruelty, hidden behind a veneer of public respectability. It will require a more refined approach than your last collection. A simple tire iron won't do."
An image flashed in Jax's mind with the clarity of a photograph. It wasn't a back-alley thug or a greasy loan shark. It was the face of a man he recognized from the news. Judge Marcus Thorne. A celebrated "hanging judge," famous for his ruthless sentences and his public image as a pillar of justice and morality.
The Sin-Scent that accompanied the image was utterly different from the last. It wasn't a foul stench of rot and decay. It was a cold, sterile, razor-sharp aroma, like antiseptic, old leather-bound books, and the metallic tang of cold money. It was the smell of evil that believed it was righteousness.
Jax felt his blood run cold. This was different. This was dangerous. Silas Croft was human garbage no one would miss. Judge Thorne was a public figure. A powerful, protected man.
Kazimir's voice was a chilling whisper in the back of his mind, cutting through his shock. "He's untouchable, Chef. Respected. Powerful. And next week, you're going to serve him his last meal."