The benefit of being good at your job is that people don’t question you. When you have a reputation of producing excellent results, your superiors will leave you alone. That’s exactly what I do. My kitchen is my domain. Everything has a place, everyone has a job, and everything is made to my standard of perfection. Many don’t make the cut. I’ve seen plenty of bright young chefs looking to make their mark, only to burn out before a month is up.

As the dinner rush comes to an end, my crew start to clean up. I take over chopping some vegetables so the new kid, Steven, can take out the trash. I have high hopes for him. He may actually make it here. He’s still got plenty of time to disappoint me though, so I’m not holding my breath. As I set to work dicing an onion, my mind wanders to other business. Prepping vegetables like this is second nature to me by this point, so I let my hands work freely. As I run down the checklist of what we will need, I remember that we are low on wines.

Once Steven returns, I collect the night’s empty wine bottles. Over two dozen in total. Tonight was busy. I set them aside as I continue to oversee my chefs prepping foods for tomorrow. Once things wind down, I head over to Steven, dismissing him for the evening. He isn’t ready, not yet. He still needs to prove himself.

After he’s gone, I snap my fingers, calling the rest of my kitchen staff to attention. Without a word needing to be spoken, I lead them all down into the wine cellar. They form a circle around me as I stand next to a table where the empty wine bottles sit. I pull out an ornate dagger as Samuel, my oldest and most loyal chef, approaches. He rolls up his sleeve, exposing countless scars along his arm. With a blank expression, he plunges the dagger into the soft flesh, letting the blood flow freely down a groove in the dagger and into the waiting bottles. After each bottle has received a portion of his essence, he withdraws the dagger, trading it for a bandage which he wraps around the open wound as he returns to his spot in the circle. One at a time, each of my employees repeats the process, adding their own blood to the mixture as the bottles continue to fill.

Management never questions where I acquire the wine we serve from. The invoice I submit each month with a bogus vineyard at the top is more than low enough to keep them happy. The customers love it too, many saying they return regularly just so they can enjoy their wine with the meal. Many, many years ago, shortly after I first turned, I learned that the best way to amass an army was for people to not realize they’ve been conscripted. All I really need is a small group of loyal followers. Thralls to be exact. With each night, each new customer that eagerly samples my wine, my power steadily grows. Soon, it will be my time to strike.