The crimson script pulsed on the marble, ‘Palate Cleanser: The Arrogant.’ A metallic shriek followed, then the clatter of a vent cover tearing free. A grotesque limb, pale and scaled, clawed through the opening, followed by another. The thing was too large for the narrow aperture, its body twisting, dark fluids dripping from its joints. It was a former server, bloated and malformed, its head a distended parody of human features, eyes glowing with an emerald luminescence. “They’re coming through!” Zuriq’s voice, sharp and high, cut through the sudden hush. He stumbled back, drawing a slender carving knife from his belt, its polished blade reflecting the flickering emergency lights. Dassan shoved Ouli behind him, hefting the square iron blade she had passed him. The first intruder dropped with a wet smack, followed by another, tumbling from the overhead duct. Their guttural growls filled the VIP lounge. “Stairwell! The grand staircase!” Ouli shouted, pointing her hatchet toward the ornate spiral ascent dominating the room. Dassan struck first, driving his wedge of iron into the nearest attacker's collarbone until bone gave way. Zuriq, for all his arrogance, was fast. He darted past the struggling mutants, his knife a silver blur, slashing at tendons and soft spots. Ouli flanked him, chopping into exposed sinew with short, methodical hacks. A transformed busboy lunged at Zuriq. He parried clumsily; claws raked his forearm and slit the white cotton to skin. “Up! Don’t stop!” Dassan yelled, hacking into an attacker's kneecap to stall the pursuit. Ouli didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Zuriq by his bloodied jacket, pulling him towards the wide, winding steps. The pack scrambled after them, talons scratching stone like a score of iron picks. The third tier of prep lines lay three flights above. They took the steps three at a time along the bronze balustrade. Sour grease and copper choked the stairwell. Below, the feline phantom screamed into the stairwell shaft. Ouli shoved Zuriq ahead. He favored his bleeding arm, breath rattling in his throat. A split-skulled abomination vaulted down from the second-tier platform, cutting them off. “Behind you!” Dassan shouted. Claws scraped the riser an inch from Ouli’s heel as the split-skulled thing lunged at Zuriq. Zuriq backpedaled, his paring steel twitching. Ouli spotted the painted shutoff toggle beside the doorway. Grease-fire suppression. “Cover your mouths!” she shouted, lunging forward to yank down the red bar. A deafening hiss erupted from the ceiling pipes. Thick, bitter-almond lye suds hissed from ceiling apertures. The froth smothered the split-skulled beast and tumbled down the steps in a bubbling bank. Screeches dissolved into wet, coughing chokes under the caustic blanket. “Move! Now!” Ouli screamed over the din, pulling Zuriq with renewed urgency. They clawed their way past the struggling beasts, the foam coating their shoes, making the steps treacherous. Dassan brought up the rear, kicking blind limbs aside, until they shoved through the heavy swinging doors onto the third floor. The air here was clearer, though the acrid smell of the suppression foam still clung to their clothes. Stainless-steel prep tables, six-burner ranges, and walk-in chillers lined the cavernous floor. Glazed terracotta tiles mapped the history of Ouros City across the north wall. Ouli leaned against a cold steel table, trying to catch her breath, her gaze drawn to one section of the mural. It depicted a majestic, nine-tailed cat, its fur a swirl of starlight and void, perched atop the highest spire of Ouros. Below it, tiny human figures offered offerings, their faces serene. But one panel, hidden behind a loose, discolored tile near an exhaust vent, caught her attention. It depicted the nine-tailed entity skinned alive, its essence drawn upward, while a human silhouette withered as four black paws and a spine grew from its torso. The caption, etched in ancient Ouros script, read: *“The Nine-Fold Fortune demands a living spirit, a vessel to replace the stolen luck, a new form for the devoured beast.”* The ledger was not simply fuel for a fire; the pact demanded a vessel. Her father had stripped the beast of its fortune, and the ritual required a substitute hide. She looked at her knuckles white around the handle. Salvation meant offering herself to the skin. “The Nine-Fold Fortune…” Zuriq whispered, tracing the ancient characters with shaking fingers. A glass box stood recessed beside the vent, housing a leather-wrapped logbook upon a velvet pad. “He had the first register right here,” Zuriq said, reaching out to trip the bronze latch. It clicked open, and he snatched the small ledger. The moment his fingers left the pressure plate it had rested on, a deep rumble resonated through the floor. Beneath the long ranges and dish pits, scores of green pinpricks sparked in the shadows. Sleek, semi-corporeal silhouettes slipped across the tile toward them without a sound.

The Butcher's Block