Tony looks old.
Not fragile. Not outdated. Just… worn in his own way.
A man in his fifties, firmly grounded in his shoes —
the kind who's seen failed stews and burned prodigies come and go.
He's in good shape, you can tell.
His stomach doesn't hang, but his cheeks have that soft roundness — almost comforting.
Like they've stored a thousand laughs and just as many meals.
A little red, a little full.
His hair is gray. Not dull. Alive.
It slips out from under his chef's hat, perfectly straight, upright like his posture.
Slightly too big for his head, but he wears it like a crown.
And his eyes…
Steel gray.
Sharp.
Tired, maybe — but alert.
With faint circles beneath them, like he dreams constantly of recipes he'll never have time to cook.
His uniform is spotless white.
Lightly wrinkled.
His apron is tied tight with the calm authority of someone who knows where everything is.
He looks at us.
Not like a superior.
More like an exacting host hoping we can at least tell the difference between a fork and a shovel.
Then he smiles —
a crooked, mocking smile.
"You look like lost kids in a supermarket," he mutters.
His voice is deep, but gentle.
With a weird, indefinable accent — maybe just salt lodged in his throat.
And instantly — despite the neon lights, despite the walls, despite Évra —
I feel a little better.
Like this man has the secret ability to turn fear into appetite.
Évra watches him with a strange spark in her eyes.
Like a child holding back a secret too big for her.
Like she's been waiting for this moment.
"Tony!"
She grins wide.
"It's time for the welcome ritual. Impress my new recruits."
Tony sighs softly.
"Aha… knowing you, you only brought new recruits to see it again."
Évra laughs without shame.
"Exactly. You know me."
I stay silent, slightly behind.
Évra always manages to disorient me.
She thrives in absurdity.
She makes every situation stranger than the last.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
What kind of nonsense is this now?
But then… everything shifts.
The cafeteria — simple, bland, almost boring — suddenly seems to come alive.
Faces brighten.
Smiles widen.
Murmurs spread.
"Tony… Tony… Tony…"
A soldier jumps up, delighted like a kid about to open presents.
"Tony is doing the welcome ritual! Hurry up, finish your plates!"
Another snickers:
"I already ate… but I don't mind eating again."
The voices multiply.
Laughing. Whispering. Chanting.
It feels like a show…
or a miracle.
I stay there — lost, curious, uneasy.
But I can't walk away.
Instinct tells me this is something you don't ignore.
Everyone gathers around Tony like believers around a priest.
Their eyes shine with childish anticipation.
Like they're about to witness the impossible.
I realize I'm holding my breath.
Fortuna watches quietly.
Aris crosses his arms, skeptical but attentive.
A circle forms.
The whisper rises.
Tony. Tony. Tony.
They're not calling a chef.
They're summoning something else.
And I wait.
Suddenly, a cold wind cuts through the room —
sharp, glacial, instinctive.
Everyone freezes.
No sound.
No breath.
My heart tightens painfully.
An aura spreads —
immense, crushing, almost divine.
What the hell is this?
This isn't power.
It's something older.
Deeper.
Something that crawls into the air and under the skin.
Something that suffocates thought.
Stronger than Évra —
I don't even doubt it.
No… maybe not stronger.
But purer.
More controlled.
Panic clamps around my chest.
My body locks up.
My lungs refuse to move.
My mind is trapped in a shrinking box.
And at the center, Tony raises his hand.
A new voice emerges —
nothing like the jovial man from earlier.
A voice that imposes.
A voice that crushes.
A divine voice.
"I am the Chef.
Materialization: Living Kitchen."
Reality bends.
Utensils rise into the air.
Pans, ladles, knives — orbiting him like planets around a star gone mad.
Machines appear —
not created, but revealed,
as if they were always hidden beneath the world's skin.
The floor trembles.
The air ripples.
Colors distort.
Time holds its breath.
A monstrous energy coils around us —
stable, precise, methodical.
It devours the cafeteria whole.
The world shatters.
And when my vision returns…
We are no longer in the cafeteria.
A vast wooden table has materialized — dark, solid, ancient.
Dozens of chairs line it with impossible symmetry.
Above us, chandeliers float, casting perfect warm light.
We weren't moved.
We were transposed.
Born into a new realm created for this ritual alone.
The air is heavy.
Sacred.
Terrifying.
And at the center —
Tony.
Smiling.
Still.
But his eyes burn with an inhuman glow.
He looks at us with calm, predatory certainty.
"Take your seats."
The chair behind me slams into my legs.
I collapse onto it like a puppet being arranged by a puppeteer.
All around me, the same thing happens.
Everyone seated.
No hesitation.
No randomness.
Right of me: Aris.
Across from me: Évra.
Beside her: Fortuna.
The rest are gone.
The table stretches into infinity —
expanding, distorting like a dream gone wrong.
Maybe others sit far away.
Maybe we're alone.
Impossible to tell.
Silence thickens —
until a breath resonates through the air itself.
Tony's voice rises.
Everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Materialization: Ingredients."
Carrots.
Tomatoes.
Chicken.
Spices.
Butter.
Milk.
All appear — floating, weightless — circling us.
A dance.
Slow. Graceful.
A ritual.
Then the echo returns:
"VERBUM: Chef's Instinct."
Everything transforms.
Carrots turn to purée.
Chicken into steak.
Tomatoes into sauce.
Spices ignite.
Heat surges.
Pots spin.
Knives glide.
Fire sings.
This isn't cooking.
Tony orchestrates.
He composes.
He awakens matter.
He knows our cravings.
Our hidden hungers.
Our unspoken desires.
Before we can think, he knows.
Before we can want, he creates.
A meal for each soul.
All at once.
Perfect.
Impossible.
Divine.
I sit frozen —
breathless in front of this blasphemous miracle.
And fear unfolds quietly inside my chest.
Because if a chef can do this…
what can the warriors of this world do?
Tony isn't a cook.
He is something beyond it.
Something terrifying.
Something sacred.
And I finally understand:
Even food can be a weapon.
A declaration.
A triumph.