Jax stood frozen, a statue carved from adrenaline and awe. He stared at the shimmering mote of light hovering over Croft's corpse. It was profoundly, fundamentally wrong. It pulsed with a weak, residual energy, like the last ember of a foul fire. It was ugly and mesmerizing all at once. The Sin-Scent, once a pervasive aura, was now concentrated in that single, corrupt spark.
Don't just stare at it, Kazimir's voice urged, a note of impatience creeping in. It will dissipate. Reach out. Take what you've earned.
His body moved before his mind could object. He raised a hand, his fingers trembling slightly. The mote of light seemed drawn to him, drifting from its position over Croft's chest and floating slowly across the space between them. It was like watching a greasy bubble rise through polluted water.
As it drew closer, he could feel its essence—a cold, cloying psychic static that smelled of fear and decay. It touched his palm.
The sensation was vile. It wasn't hot or cold in a physical sense. It was a greasy, spiritual chill that sank through his skin and into his veins. It felt like plunging his hand into a bucket of slugs. The light dissolved, absorbed into his flesh, and for a horrifying, disorienting second, his mind was flooded with a phantom echo of Silas Croft's pathetic existence. He felt a flash of Croft's suffocating greed, the thrill of a swindle, the sour taste of cheap whiskey, the gnawing, ever-present fear of being caught. It was a psychic stain, a smear of another man's filth on the inside of his own soul.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Wiped clean.
In its place, a new sensation crashed over him. It wasn't a memory or an emotion. It was pure, raw information, downloaded directly into his brain with the speed of a thunderclap.
Bistecca alla Fiorentina.
He didn't just know the recipe. He understood it. He knew the precise thickness to cut the porterhouse steak—four fingers, no less. He knew the exact temperature the charcoal embers should be—a shimmering, white-hot 800 degrees. He knew the sound the steak should make as it hit the grill, a violent, percussive hiss that was the prelude to perfection. He knew the precise moment to flip it, the delicate art of rendering the fat cap, the non-negotiable ten-minute resting period on a wooden board. The muscle memory was instantly, impossibly, his. It felt as if he had spent a thousand lifetimes mastering this single dish.
At the same instant, he felt a tangible weight materialize in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. The sudden heft was startling. He reached in, his fingers closing around a small, heavy pouch made of what felt like rough, black canvas, tied shut with a leather cord. It was cool to the touch.
That's your second reward, Kazimir's voice explained, laced with the pride of a master presenting his finest work. Ashen Salts, harvested from the Plains of Avarice in the Second Circle of Hell. You'll find mortal salt… lacking, from now on. These don't just season the meat. They are a catalyst. They draw out and amplify the deepest, most primal ambition of whoever tastes the dish. A cut of steak seasoned with this can make a timid clerk feel like a king. Imagine what it will do for the kings who can afford to eat here. Your first true secret ingredient.
The words barely registered. Jax's mind was a maelstrom of conflicting sensations: the greasy memory of the soul, the crystalline perfection of the recipe, the alien weight of the pouch in his hand. He looked down at the dead man on the floor, then at his own hand, the one that had absorbed the soul. It looked no different, but it felt irrevocably tainted.
The local authorities will find him in the morning, Kazimir said, his tone shifting to business-like finality. A tragic accident. A clumsy, greedy man tripped and fell in his own office. Nothing for you to worry about. Your work here is done. Go home, Chef.
The voice faded, leaving Jax alone in the dead silence of the office, the only sound his own ragged breathing. He moved like an automaton, his body retracing its steps out of the building, down the fire escape, and back into the anonymous shadows of the alley. The city was still alive around him, but he felt utterly disconnected from it, wrapped in a cold, isolating bubble.
The walk back to Romano's was a blur. He moved through the late-night streets of Hell's Kitchen, a ghost haunting his own neighborhood. When he finally let himself into the back door of his restaurant, the familiar scent of garlic and olive oil did nothing to comfort him. The kitchen, once his sanctuary, now felt sterile and alien.
He went straight to the industrial sink, turned the hot water on full blast, and began to scrub his hands. He pumped soap over and over, working up a thick lather, scrubbing until his skin was raw and red. But he couldn't wash it away. The cold, greasy feeling was still there, a psychic residue that soap and water couldn't touch. He looked at his hands, the scarred knuckles of an enforcer, the calloused fingertips of a chef. The same hands that had just facilitated a man's death and collected his soul were now supposed to create art. The contradiction was a physical sickness in his gut.
"A moral hangover? How quaint."
Jax spun around. Kazimir was leaning against the stainless-steel pass, looking as immaculate and unruffled as he had the night before. He hadn't made a sound.
"Get over it," Kazimir said, his expression one of mild disappointment. "You were a surgeon excising a tumor. A janitor cleaning up a mess. Regret is a useless, indulgent emotion. It has no place in our transaction." He pushed himself off the pass and sauntered closer. "The deal is simple: you provide a service, and I provide you with the tools for unparalleled success. Don't cheapen the arrangement with unwarranted guilt. It's… unprofessional."
With a final, dismissive glance, Kazimir dissolved into the shadows, vanishing as silently as he had appeared.
Jax was left alone, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on him. He was shaking, a fine tremor running through his entire body. He was disgusted with himself, repulsed by what he had done, by the cold efficiency with which he had done it.
And yet… a part of him, a dark, hungry part, was burning with curiosity. The recipe in his head felt like a symphony waiting to be played. The pouch of Ashen Salts in his pocket felt like a key. He had paid a terrible price. He had to know if it was worth it.
He walked to the lowboy refrigerator, his movements stiff, and pulled out a thick, beautifully marbled porterhouse steak he'd been saving. He fired up the grill, the whoosh of the gas jets loud in the silence. His hands, moving with an unfamiliar, perfect confidence, began to work. He trimmed the steak, patted it dry. He followed the steps that were now seared into his brain.
He laid the magnificent cut of beef on the scorching hot grill. The hiss was violent, explosive. The smell of searing fat and charring meat filled the air. He cooked it with a precision he had never possessed, his instincts screaming at him exactly when to turn it, when to move it, when to pull it off to rest.
Finally, he sliced the steak, the knife gliding through the perfectly medium-rare flesh. The interior was a flawless, ruby red. He took a pinch of the Ashen Salts from the pouch. They were a dull, shimmering grey, surprisingly heavy, and felt cool to the touch. He sprinkled them over the meat. They seemed to melt into the surface, leaving behind a faint, silvery sheen.
He picked up a slice with his fingers and lifted it to his mouth. He took a bite.
The world exploded for the second time in twenty-four hours. The flavor was incandescent, a depth of beefiness and char and smoke that was almost painfully intense. It was, without question, the greatest thing he had ever tasted.
But it was the feeling that followed that truly staggered him. A wave of pure, unadulterated ambition crashed over him, powerful and intoxicating. It wasn't just a thought; it was a vision. He saw Romano's, not empty and silent, but packed to the rafters, a line of beautifully dressed people stretching out the door and down the block. He heard the roar of a happy crowd, saw the flash of cameras. He felt the weight of a Michelin guide in his hand, opening to a page with his name on it. He saw success, not as a vague hope, but as an absolute, achievable certainty. It was the most addictive feeling he had ever known.
He looked down from the piece of steak in his hand to his own reflection, distorted in the polished blade of his chef's knife. He saw his own wide, hungry eyes. And in that moment, he understood. The price for his dream hadn't just been Silas Croft's soul.
It was his own.