The bar, The Listing Ship, once again reeked of stale beer, sweat, and imminent violence. A comforting return to origins. Kurok was sipping a fresh mug of beer that today tasted distinctly like burnt rubber and regret. It was a good day.
"So, to sum it up," said Nana, scraping glitter out of the joint in her metal arm with the tip of one of her blades. "Aethelburg's in retreat but humiliated, which makes him more dangerous. OmniGen wants us alive, but in a gilded cage. And the Gutter Kings owe us either an arm or maybe a leg—the message was kind of unclear."
"A leg has more meat," Kurok mused, staring thoughtfully at his beer. "But an arm's easier to carry. Tough choice."
Kael, sitting apart, watched the street through the window. "They're not the real problem. The calm is. Silas doesn't quit—he reconfigures. And Croft... Croft only spends his attention on profitable investments. His silence means war."
Then the air began to vibrate. A smell—rich, greasy, and impossibly tempting—swept through the bar. It was the smell of perfectly melted cheese, roasted garlic, and fresh bread straight from the oven. So potent, so specific, it seemed to wash away every other scent.
Kurok shot to his feet, pupils dilating. "What the hell is that?"
Outside, the residents of Grimecity had frozen mid-step, sniffing the air like starving wolves. Their eyes glazed over, hypnotized. A food truck—gleaming, brand new—was parked in the middle of the street. No driver. On its side, in glowing letters, were the words: THE ULTIMATE FONDUE – Satisfaction Guaranteed.
"A trap," said Nana immediately, blades sliding halfway out. "Obvious."
"A melted cheese trap," corrected Kurok, a thin line of drool forming. "The worst kind of trap. The kind you want to fall into."
The truck's hatch opened with a seductive shhhlick. Inside, a cast-iron cauldron bubbled, filled with a golden, pulsing substance. It gave off no heat, only a pure magical vibration—a primal call that spoke directly to Kurok's hunger.
"Don't," warned Kael, standing. "It's obvious. It's OmniGen. They're baiting you."
"Of course it's OmniGen!" cried Dr. Gloubi, popping up from behind the bar where he'd been cataloguing molds. "Look at the energy signature! It's a pure emotional decoy, tuned to his viral receptors! It's beautifully twisted!"
The townsfolk, eyes vacant, began shuffling toward the truck like zombies.
"They can't resist," murmured Kael. "The pull's too strong."
Kurok stared at the fondue. He could feel its texture, its rich nutty flavor, the way it would perfectly coat a chunk of bread... It was culinary perfection, engineered in a lab—a masterpiece of manipulation.
"They figured it out," he said quietly. "They're not attacking me with weapons. They're attacking me with... a menu."
"And you're really going to take the bait?" asked Nana, exasperated.
Kurok turned to her, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I'm not taking the bait. I'm eating it."
He strode out of the bar and walked straight to the truck. The entranced crowd parted for him. He stopped in front of the bubbling cauldron.
"This your play, Cross?" he shouted. "You offer me a meal?"
Julian Cross's smooth, digitized voice emanated from the truck. "Think of it as a tasting, Kurok. A preview of what OmniGen can offer. One desire, fulfilled. One hunger, satisfied. No strings attached."
"There are always strings," Kurok replied, plunging his hand straight into the fondue.
Silence. Then the golden liquid began to twitch violently. Instead of consuming him, it reacted to him. Its color shifted—from gold to deep violet, then to electric blue. The aroma grew wilder, layered with strange spices and ozone.
"Interesting," murmured Kurok. "It's learning."
Suddenly, the fondue exploded—but not into searing shrapnel. It burst into a swarm of tiny winged creatures, like sizzling garlic-croutons, fluttering in formation. They drew glowing symbols in the air—an address—before vanishing into nothing.
The food truck disintegrated into metallic dust.
Kurok licked his fingers, where a faint tingling sensation lingered.
"So?" Nana asked, stepping up beside him, blades still drawn.
"It was a message," Kurok said. "And a test."
"What kind of test?"
"To see if I prefer home cooking or corporate cuisine." He burped, releasing a puff of garlic-scented smoke. "Sorry, Cross. Your fondue's a bit too... pretentious. Lacks soul."
He turned to his companions.
"They gave us Silas's hideout. The one where he's keeping his 'flower-daughter.'"
Kael frowned. "Why? Why would OmniGen help us?"
"They're not helping," said Kurok, smiling again—this time feral. "They're serving the appetizer. They want to watch Silas and me fight over the main course. While he prepares dessert."
He glanced toward the direction of the projected address.
"Well," he said. "Let's not keep the chef waiting. Time to ruin his show."
The real game was starting.
And Kurok was suddenly very hungry.