The famous Delina Kitchen, home of the heavenly fries.
A huge, gleaming building packed with customers coming and going, business booming like any other day.
Orders flew in; waiters rushed plates to tables; the air smelled like butter, spice, and hot oil. People came just to try one of their top-tier meals.
The tables and chairs were so finely finished it felt like sitting in a small palace, and a broad, hammered-gold roof shimmered above. Each table even had a slim holographic screen to place quick orders.
"Here's your meal, Table 15,"
A waiter said, setting two trays before a smiling couple.
The building sat in the city of Manchester, in England, one of the countries that leapt ahead after the war. Life there had settled into something close to peaceful.
The current king, tight with Galaxia's high council, had requested six Izigan substations across the nation. Each substation held trained Izigan warriors to watch and guard affairs on Earth.
The more of them there were, the lower the crime rate, and England had become one of the safest places you could live. But safety like that never lasts forever.
In Delina's kitchen, Paul, the young chef moved through steam and heat. Big and muscular, apron tied tight, hat set low, he went pot to pot tasting sauces the girls had ready for the floor.
His presence distracted more than a few of them. At twenty-three, with smooth skin and a relaxed smile, he drew greetings from across the room
"Hey, Paul!"
While the few guys and older hands kept their focus on the work.
Some of the girls giggled when he stepped over; he smiled back and kept moving. Paul was Izigan. For a while he'd been obsessed with going up to Galaxia as a warrior, like almost everyone but cooking won.
To keep the job, he was banned from using his powers in the building. He knew his color, chaos Izigan and saved his tricks for home.
He also used a bit of it to keep his body looking the way it did; he was pretty sure half the kitchen wouldn't give him a second look if he stopped using that power to sculpt himself.
While the place buzzed, something darker had already arrived.
The Void hung without form, a liquid body black as ink veined with dim purple, thick and slow as tar. It spread across the roof, found seams and vents, and slid down into the building, feeling its way through dark spaces until it reached a room without windows.
"Hey, Paul. I need some supplies, go grab them from the basement,"
his boss called, waving him over.
"You got it, boss. One minute."
Paul swung open the basement door and went down. The passage was long, lined with storage rooms; with a click the lights came on one by one down the hall.
The last bulb at the very end stayed dead. He noticed, frowned, then let it go.
He opened one of the doors, lifted a brown box, and headed back.
He never saw the black mass pooled in the far darkness at the end, swelling and creeping up the wall like vines.
They worked until night. When it was finally time to go, Paul, as usual left late. Either a girl stopped him or he stopped one; phone numbers traded hands; jokes landed; and there went the last minutes of the day.
He didn't mind if his contacts list hit a thousand. With chaos energy, he'd even learned a trick or two duplicating himself in a pinch to keep conversations going.
He reached his apartment worn out. It was 11:30. He needed sleep and nothing else. He hit the lights, dropped onto the bed, and was out.
Hours later, his alarm tore him up at 4:30 a.m. He showered, dressed, and hit the road. The restaurant was only a few blocks away. Determined to keep his Employee of the Month streak alive, he got there first again.
He used the staff entrance, swiped his card flat against the time-clock scanner, and started cleaning. After that, he did his usual morning check looked over the shelves to see if they were short on any ingredients.
They were. He'd need to restock from the basement.
He opened the basement door, pressed the switch, and the corridor lights came on as usual. He walked toward the storage room he needed.
Then the lights at the far end began to click off, one after another, moving toward him in a straight line.
He stopped. The hallway went dark.
Vines lashed out of the black, huge cords of Void, snatching him from both sides, lifting him off his feet, wrapping his chest and legs.
He screamed once, and the vines covered his mouth. The cold bit deep. The air itself felt afraid.
Minutes later, most of the kitchen crew had arrived and started the day. Something felt off. Paul wasn't there to greet them like always. Stranger still, his check-in said he'd already come in that morning.
"Where did Paul go? He left the door open, too," one of them said.
"He'll show. He never misses work," another answered.
They pushed on until one cook noticed the basement door still ajar. He put down his knife, crossed the floor, looked back at the busy line, and stepped inside.
Three steps down, the vine struck, driving straight through his chest and out his stomach. Blood splashed across the kitchen tiles.
Terror hit all at once. The girls screamed. The vines thundered out of the basement, whipping through stations and bodies, killing everyone they caught. Tables flipped; steel bent; people fell in halves.
Customers weren't spared. The tendrils spread through the dining hall and along the walls. Any Izigans inside were the unluckiest, the Void drained their cosmic energy on the spot.
From top to bottom the building drowned in it, a full blood bath with only a few people slipping out alive.
Outside, the vines wrapped the whole structure. A heavy surge of cosmic energy rolled into the air as the Void entered the final process of binding with its new host.
People ran. Others filmed, shaking hands and open mouths catching every second.
It didn't take long for the nearby substations and Galaxia's sector unit to flag the anomaly.
When the Void came out of its shell this time, it wouldn't be what they remembered.