Prologue: False Dreams part 1

The hiss of searing pans, the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards, and the low hum of murmuring diners outside created a symphony of perfection in the kitchen. It was the grand opening night of L'Ascension, the crowning achievement of Chef Mykal Valenstride. He stood at the center of it all, commanding respect with his presence, his sharp eyes scanning every detail. Nothing could go wrong tonight. Not after years of sacrifice.

"Focus!" His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "The sauce needs more acidity—fire a new one now!"

"Yes, Chef!" A junior chef scrambled to correct the error, terrified under the master chef's gaze.

Mykal's hands, usually steady as stone, trembled for a fleeting moment, almost spilling the garnishes while he plated, but he ignored the sensation. His mind, like a tightly wound spring, was coiled around the desire for perfection.

Out in the dining room, the air was thick with anticipation. A-listers, critics, and industry elites awaited the debut of a meal destined to become legend. But inside the kitchen, the atmosphere was far more volatile. The relentless pace, the heat, the pressure—it was all Mykal had ever known, and all he had ever wanted.

The restaurant thrived on his control, yet somewhere in the back of his mind, a shadow loomed. A familiar, dull ache tightened in his chest, a heaviness he had been ignoring for weeks. He forced it away. Not tonight, he thought. Not on this night.

The din of the kitchen began to fade as his mind drifted back to another night, another kitchen, years ago. He was just a boy, standing beside his mother in their humble home as she prepared dinner.

"Happiness, Mykal," his mother had said with a soft smile, her hands moving effortlessly as she stirred the pot. "It's not found in perfection. It's found in the simple moments—the joy of sharing what you create with the people you love."

He had barely listened then, too focused on mastering the knife techniques he saw on television. His father had echoed similar sentiments, always urging balance, but balance had never tasted as sweet as victory. And so, Mykal had dismissed their words, chasing after a dream that consumed him.

Now, standing in his gleaming kitchen, surrounded by staff who feared rather than respected him, he realized how far he had strayed from those warm memories. But the thoughts were fleeting, lost as he snapped back to the present. Tonight wasn't about the past. It was about legacy.

The last dish was served, and the crowd in the dining room erupted into applause. Critics scribbled glowing notes, and guests showered the staff with compliments. L'Ascension was an undeniable triumph.

Mykal, however, felt only the crushing weight of exhaustion. The night was everything he had worked for, yet the joy he had expected was absent. His steps were heavy as he retreated to his office, a place of solitude amidst the celebration. He sat down, resting his head in his hands.

A sharp cough rattled his chest, followed by another. His hands, which had once carved culinary masterpieces with precision, were now shaking. He stared at them, willing the tremors to stop. He blamed it on the stress—years of pressure building to this one night. He could push through. He always had.

But somewhere deep down, a voice whispered that this time was different.

Weeks passed, and Mykal's health continued to decline. His once-strong frame grew thinner, his energy waning with each passing day. But still, he refused to leave the kitchen. It was the one thing he could hold onto, even as everything else slipped away.

His restaurant partners visited him occasionally, offering hollow words of encouragement. But Mykal could see the greed in their eyes, the unspoken calculations they made with each glance at him. They saw an opportunity—his death would only increase their share of the business.

And his so-called friends, the chefs and critics who once praised his genius? They were nowhere to be found, too busy basking in the glow of his success without a second thought for the man behind it.

Alone in his kitchen, surrounded by the tools of his trade, Mykal felt a loneliness deeper than he had ever known.

Suddenly, lightheaded from the stress, his consciousness faltered.

Thud.

He lay on the cold, stone floor for five hours until the morning prep crew found him. They immediately called an ambulance.