CHAPTER 75: HOLLOW FEAST (PT 2)

If Marron had been a braver girl, she would have taken one of her kitchen knives and thrown it at the nearest mimic. But unfortunately, she wasn’t a character in one of those assassin video games.

So she dropped her knife, still inside her pack, and put her head on the table. Her stomach chose to growl loudly, and she groaned audibly. "Just kill me now."

It hadn’t occured to her to eat before entering the diner, and now she was hungry.

Great. Just play along, Marron...it’ll be over soon. I need to know where the inn is, too.

A couple of mimics at the nearest booth turned their bland heads toward the sound, their faces sliding into amused shapes.

At least, that was what she thought. Their faces shifted too quickly for her mind to comprehend.

One minute they’re demonic-looking, the next...they just look like humans.

"Hungry?" one slurred in a voice stitched from two different tones.

Marron’s throat tightened. She forced herself to nod, letting her shoulders sag with exhaustion she didn’t have to fake. "Yeah. Long day."

The mimic at the counter perked up, when it heard that, and started cooking. She didn’t want to stare at it for too long, but the mimic was making it extremely difficult. It had a mop of scraggly dark-brown curls, and it couldn’t keep a full smile on its face.

When she saw the pink, unnaturally bulging eyes, she finally realized the horror of her present situation. The mimic chef was trying to wear her mangled face. She even saw a small name tag with "Marron" scrawled onto it in charcoal.

But...the other mimic copied Balen so well. I wonder why that one can’t copy me?

+

"Coming right up," it said with a wobbly half-formed smile. The mimic used her broken fingers to scoop mushy rice and chicken onto a cracked plate. Then it drizzled soy sauce with jerky, uncertain motions.

Instead of a well-seasoned plate, the smell slapped her in the face. Mimic Marron used too much garlic, overcooked the rice, and the shredded chicken...it looked so dry. The delicate balance Marron perfected...turned crude and heavy.

"For new friend," Mimic Marron announced, setting the dish on the counter with trembling hands that couldn’t quite grip properly. "Captain needs us to keep strength up."

My recipe, Marron thought, bile rising in her throat. They’re serving me my own recipe.

She wanted to refuse and shove the plate across the floor.

This is my recipe. My seasoning choices, my ratios, and my heart was in every grain of rice.

But her belly twisted painfully, and she knew she couldn’t. Not without drawing the wrong kind of attention. And she wanted to know more about this Captain.

Marron stood on legs that felt disconnected from her body and carried the plate back to her booth. Her stomach was starving, but each step felt like betrayal to who she was as a chef.

As she settled into her seat, the System didn’t even bother pinging her again. It was mediocre food, not even worth another glance.

+

During her stay in Savoria, she had gotten used to beautiful ingredients turning into stunning dishes. So this was her worst nightmare, by far.

Marron raised the silver spoon, telling herself this was about survival.

If I didn’t need to blend in, I would have cooked instead. But...they’d know I’m not a monster.

Her lips parted and she took her first bite.

A few seconds in, Marron tried really hard not to retch as she chewed.

The texture was a disaster. Each rice grain was wet and mushy, and the chicken was dry and stringy. The soy sauce clung on like brine, overpowering everything else.

I’m glad they didn’t get any ginger, Marron thought suddenly. The thought of badly cooked rice and an excessive amount of ginger made her stomach churn.

This was worse than her first time boiling water.

It was an echo of food.

Yet the mimics couldn’t get enough of it.

Her throat screamed to spit it out, but her empty stomach clutched desperately at even this mockery of nourishment.

She swallowed.

"Good," she rasped, forcing the corners of her mouth upward even as her soul recoiled.

The mimics around her clapped with wet, slapping sounds. "Yes! Good! New friend likes it!"

"Marron’s recipe," another added with pride that made her skin crawl. "Always popular."

Her name.

They said it like they owned it, like they’d earned the right to wear her identity along with her face.

Bite after bite, she played the role. She let her shoulders relax like someone eating gratefully after a long journey. She even hummed softly—a sound she’d heard from satisfied customers back in the guild square, when her food actually brought comfort instead of this violation.

Inside, though, every chew was warfare. Each swallow was a reminder of how close she was to disappearing entirely.

Her stomach stopped rumbling, and that was the main thing. As she continued to swallow the hollow feast, Marron began to notice things.

The way the cook-mimic’s hands shook when it tried to portion rice—like muscle memory fighting against unfamiliar flesh. How the other mimics praised every dish with the same recycled phrases, their enthusiasm hollow as their copied faces.

They didn’t understand what they were serving.

They only knew that others had called it good.

When her plate was finally empty, Marron set the spoon down with hands that barely trembled.

The cook-mimic’s ruined face split into that too-wide grin. "Next... onigiri. For you."

Her heart sank as another mangled triangle hit her plate—rice crumbling, seaweed torn, filling leaking like an open wound. But as she lifted it, something shifted in her mind.

If I can keep pretending long enough, I can learn where my cart is. And what floor this Captain is in.

And maybe even play a few tricks on my own.

She was also interested in knowing just how deep this dungeon truly was.

This wasn’t just survival--she was gathering information.

Marron bit into the sloppy onigiri, tasting the bland rice and underseasoned chicken. The mimics watched expectantly, their stolen faces eager for approval.

"Delicious," she lied, smiling through the paste in her mouth.

The chamber erupted in their stolen voices of praise, a chorus of borrowed joy that rang false as cracked bells.

And in the middle of it all, Marron swallowed her disgust, her hunger, and her wounded pride. Because to reclaim what was hers—her cart, her recipes, her very identity—she’d have to sit at this table of thieves and convince them she belonged.

At least until she found what she came for.

The onigiri felt like mush, but she smiled through it.

Soon.