Food is a force of life. Hydrate, sleep, exercise, do whatever your mundane empty life gives you.

But without food, we would all wither away into the past, growing weak and decrepit until there was nothing left of our pitiful existence.

“Order Number 37! Shrimp Special, gluten intolerance! Workspace clean, now!”

The kitchen snaps to attention, my commands reveberating through their minds, demanding their bodies to bend to my will.

The sharpening of utensils.

The splash of the sink.

The sizzle of the pan.

The aromas of the kitchen weren’t something to gawk at. They direct my anger or my praise, showing me what dish was prepared with precision or carelessness. And today, only the highest level of attention could be present.

An extremely prolific guest would be in attendance today.

They had bought out the entire building, a feat in itself given the billiondollar ownership and the eyewatering fees to cover for a place in such incredibly high demand among the rich.

And they would demand nothing but the best.

“Order 56! Miserable display. Where is the consistency of the sauce? What is this texture? You think this represents the culinary excellence of the kitchen you stand in?”

“N-no Chef, I’ll make it aga-“

“OUT OF THE KITCHEN. You there, take their workspace and do it again. Properly.”

Hours pass. Struggling, steaming and sweating to acheive absolute perfection in the run up to the most important dish of the night.

Order Number 100. The final dish that would be served to our Very Important Person. And everyone would watch every single bite that was taken.

As the time arose, I crack my neck. My wrists loosen, my lungs expand.

I begin to cook.

The entire kitchen watches in fearful silence, afraid to disturb my absolute focus.

The final garnish is set.

The dish is sent out.

The plate arrives at the table.

We all stand in the hall, and watch.

The dish was perfectly executed of course. The meat, tenderised to perfection. A flawlessly reduced sauce maintaining a sour yet refreshing taste. The placement of the garnishes laid to the highest degree of precision. The plate, heated to the optimal temperature. You could smell the mouthwatering aroma from the back of the hall.

The guest slams their face into the plate.

A stunned silence strikes the shocked onlookers.

The guest does not move.

Their body, lifeless.

The guest’s entourage rush in to assess their vitals, but it is over. The dish was nearly finished, the damage had been done.

A shadow behind a pillar moves above my head.

The whispered congratulations passes into my ear.

An envelope appears in the hands behind my back.

I excuse myself, and head for the exit.

As I slide into the dimly lit escort, they ask me who the vehicle was booked for.

“Nobody.

Nobody in particular.”