---
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."
