The black dust sifted through Jax's fingers, leaving no trace. He was left staring at his empty, trembling hand. The air in the restaurant was still and dead. Nothing had changed, yet everything was different. The impossible glass of whiskey still sat on the bar, its golden contents shimmering softly in the dim light. It was the only proof that the encounter had been real.
Jax's mind raced. He had just made a deal with… something. A devil? A demon? The word didn't matter. The reality of it settled in his bones, a chilling, profound cold.
He felt a strange hum in the back of his mind. It was a faint, electric vibration, like a new appliance switched on for the first time. It was unnerving, an alien presence in the sanctity of his own thoughts.
A smooth, familiar voice echoed directly inside his head, as clear as if the man were standing beside him. "Welcome aboard, Chef. Management is delighted to have you."
Jax jolted, spinning around. His hand shot back under the bar, grabbing the tire iron. The restaurant was empty. He was alone. But the voice was there, a silken intrusion in his skull.
"Relax," the voice of Kazimir continued, dripping with a condescending amusement. "I'm not in the room. I'm in your head. It's part of the benefits package. Much more efficient this way, don't you think? No need for phone calls."
Jax's knuckles were white. "Get out of my head," he growled aloud, the sound swallowed by the empty room.
"I'm afraid our contract is quite binding on that point. Think of me as your new sous-chef. One with a great deal of experience. Now, are you going to stand there talking to yourself like a lunatic, or are you going to learn how to cook?"
The voice was calm, rational, and utterly in control. It made Jax's skin crawl. He felt like a bug under a microscope. He tried to mentally push back, to erect a wall, but it was like trying to punch smoke. Kazimir was just… there. A permanent tenant in his mind.
"To the kitchen," Kazimir commanded, his tone shifting from amused to businesslike. "Your first lesson begins now."
Jax's jaw tightened with rebellion. "I'm not your puppet."
"Of course not," Kazimir replied instantly, his mental voice dry. "You're my hands. There's a difference. A very important one. I provide the knowledge; you provide the action. It's a symbiotic relationship."
Jax stayed rooted to the spot, his mind a battlefield. This was insane. He had sold his soul for a recipe book that read itself inside his brain.
"The longer you stand there feeling sorry for yourself, the longer you remain a failure who can't even make a decent plate of pasta," Kazimir prodded, his words sharp and precise. "Is that what you want? Or do you want to build the dream you were weeping over just an hour ago? The choice is yours. The clock is ticking."
The mention of his despair, his weakness, was a gut punch. Kazimir was right. He had made his choice. Standing here arguing with the devil in his head wouldn't change that. With a low growl of resignation, he slammed the tire iron back into its hiding place and stalked toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was exactly as he'd left it: a disaster zone. The pot of broken carbonara sauce was still on the stove, a congealed, greasy monument to his incompetence. Dirty pans were piled in the sink.
"First things first," Kazimir's voice instructed. "Clean your station. A craftsman respects his tools and his space. Even a butcher knows that. This is your temple now, Chef. Treat it as such."
Grumbling under his breath, Jax started to clean. He scrubbed the pans, wiped down the stainless-steel counters, and mopped the floor. As he worked, a strange calm began to settle over him. The simple, physical labor was grounding. And with every spot he cleaned, it felt less like his old, failed kitchen and more like a blank canvas.
When the kitchen was spotless, Kazimir spoke again. "Good. Now, we will correct last night's… unfortunate incident. You are going to make Spaghetti Carbonara."
Jax felt a flash of his old frustration. "I tried. It was a disaster."
"You tried with the clumsy hands of a thug," Kazimir corrected smoothly. "Now, you will try with mine."
Reluctantly, Jax retrieved the ingredients. The guanciale, the eggs, the block of pecorino, the spaghetti. He placed them on the clean counter.
"Begin," Kazimir ordered. "Slice the guanciale. But this time, don't just cut it. Feel it. Close your eyes."
Jax hesitated, then did as he was told. He picked up the cured pork jowl. "Focus," Kazimir whispered in his mind. "Don't just see the meat and the fat. Taste the salt with your fingers. Smell the cure, the faint aroma of the herbs, the life of the animal. Understand its purpose. It exists to render its flavor into the dish. Respect that."
As he focused, something shifted. It was like a new sense had awakened. He could suddenly perceive the ingredient with an impossible clarity. He understood its texture, its potential, its very essence. When he opened his eyes and sliced, his knife moved with a precision and confidence that wasn't his own. The pieces were perfect, uniform cubes.
Next, the pan. He placed it on the stove. "Heat," Kazimir said. "Don't look at the flame. Feel the pan. Feel the heat rising through the metal. I will tell you when it is ready."
Jax rested his hand just above the surface, his mind quiet and focused. He could feel the energy radiating from the burner, a living thing. He felt the exact moment the pan reached the perfect temperature. It was a deep, innate knowing that came from nowhere. He added the guanciale, and it sizzled gently, not violently, slowly rendering its fat into liquid gold.
While the pork cooked, he turned to the eggs and cheese. "Now for the most important lesson," Kazimir's voice became serious. "Soul-Seasoning. Everything in this world has a faint echo, Chef. An intent. The rage you felt last night? You cooked that anger directly into the food. That's why it tasted so foul. This time, you will cook with a different intent. You will cook with the desire for absolute perfection. Focus on that feeling. Infuse that pure, simple desire into the cheese as you grate it. Channel it into the eggs as you whisk them."
Jax did as instructed. He closed his eyes and thought of one thing: making this dish perfect. He imagined the creamy texture, the balanced flavor. He poured that singular, focused desire into his hands as they moved. The whisk in his hand felt like a magic wand, transforming the simple ingredients into something more.
The process continued like a flawless dance. He cooked the pasta, its starchy water a crucial component he now understood. He combined the elements off the heat, his hands moving with an unthinking grace. The sauce came together not as a scrambled mess, but as a silken, creamy emulsion that coated every single strand of spaghetti.
He plated the dish, his movements fluid and economical. He stared at the finished product. It was beautiful. It was a work of art. The creamy pasta, the glistening jewels of guanciale, the generous dusting of black pepper and cheese. It was the dish he had seen in his dreams.
"Well?" Kazimir's voice prodded, a smug edge to it now. "Don't just admire your own brilliance. Taste your new life."
With a slightly trembling hand, Jax picked up a fork. He twirled the pasta, lifted it to his lips, and took a bite.
The flavor was a supernova on his tongue.
It was an explosion of taste so intense, so profound, it almost brought him to his knees. He could taste every single element with a divine, impossible clarity. The sharp, salty tang of the pecorino. The rich, savory depth of the guanciale. The creamy, luxurious coating of the egg yolk. The aggressive, spicy bite of fresh-cracked black pepper. They were all there, perfectly balanced, each one singing its part in a glorious choir.
But there was something else. Underneath it all, there was a lingering, addictive quality. A hook. A feeling of profound satisfaction that went beyond mere flavor. It made him instantly, desperately, crave another bite.
This wasn't just cooking. This was sorcery.
He took another bite, and then another, his eyes wide with disbelief. He finally understood. Kazimir hadn't just given him a skill. He had given him a superpower. And it was his.
Kazimir's voice purred in his mind, laced with the triumphant satisfaction of a master who had just proven his point. "See, Chef? I told you. I'm the best secret ingredient a man could ask for."