Bite-Sized Behemoths

I just wanted a decent nap. Instead, I woke up at a funeral - specifically, the funeral of the Krasnograd Enclave's greatest monster hunter. The kicker? That was me. Apparently, my past self got so sick of the military draft that she wiped her own memory, faked her death, and left me the deed to a dilapidated shack in the slums. My retirement plan was simple: hunt low-tier beasts, roast them perfectly so I don't have to chew too hard, and sleep eighteen hours a day. But in a post-apocalyptic base where everyone survives on gray nutrient sludge, the smell of braised Razor-Grizzly is a dangerous thing. Enter Ignat, the snobby executive chef of the elite upper levels who cooks with hoarded, priceless hydroponic vegetables. He came to shut down my unsanitary meat shack, but one bite of my spicy mutant-tail skewers later, he’s openly weeping, renouncing his synthetic caviar, and fighting scavengers for the right to wash my bloody dishes. But with the wasteland's deadliest monsters migrating toward my diner's smell, can I protect my precious nap time, or will my cooking end up saving the Enclave I tried so hard to quit?