The day Marron Louvel's life ended, she had $200 to her name, a crumpled resignation letter stuffed in the bottom of her purse, and a hunger that was chewing at her soul more than her stomach.
I wonder when I started feeling like this. I did everything right.
She'd smiled through sales meetings that should've been emails, hit her monthly quotas without fail. Hell, she'd even perfected the art of the "working lunch" – scarfing down sad desk salads while responding to client emails, all in the name of "keeping her metrics up."
Marron grimaced at the thought. Several years of rejecting coworkers' invites to try that new Thai place or grab pizza after work.
"Sorry, I've got calls to make."
"Maybe next week."
"You know how it is."
But when was the last time she'd actually enjoyed a meal?
When was the last time food had been anything more than fuel to keep her productivity engine running?
The elevator dinged on her floor – the thirteenth, because of course it was. She trudged toward her cubicle, past the motivational posters that had lost all meaning months ago.
"Excellence is a Habit!"
"Your Only Limit is You!"
Her computer screen glowed with seventeen new emails, all marked "urgent."
The desk calendar showed three back-to-back meetings before lunch, then two more after.
Same as yesterday.
Same as tomorrow.
When did I agree to live like this?
Her phone buzzed: a Slack message from Derek, her manager.
"Quick check-in at 10? Conference Room B."
Marron stared at the message. This would be the third "check-in" this week. The first two had been thinly veiled performance reviews disguised as "supportive conversations."
She opened her bottom drawer and pulled out the envelope she'd been carrying for three weeks. Her resignation letter, printed and signed, waiting for the right moment.
Maybe there was no right moment. Maybe there was only now.
At exactly 10:03 AM, Marron sat across from Derek in Conference Room B, watching him scroll through his tablet with that focused frown he wore during all their "check-ins."
"So," he said, not looking up, "I know you're still adjusting to the new system."
Marron's jaw tightened. She'd been using the "new system" for eight months now. She'd even trained two other people on it.
"But Q3's projections are getting tighter, so we really need our best foot forward." Derek finally glanced up, giving her that practiced manager smile. "If you want to shadow Camila this week to pick up some of her techniques—"
"No."
The word came out harder than she'd intended. Derek blinked, clearly thrown off his script.
Marron reached into her purse and pulled out the envelope. Her hands were shaking – when had they started shaking? – but she managed to slide it across the table.
"Actually, this is my two weeks' notice."
Derek stared at the envelope like it might bite him. "Your... what?"
"I quit," Marron said, and saying it out loud made something inside her chest crack open. Not break – crack, like an egg. Like something was trying to hatch.
The silence stretched between them until Marron wanted to throw up.
"I'm not shadowing Camila," she added, because the quiet was unbearable.
Derek picked up the envelope, turned it over in his hands. "Marron, let's... let's talk about this. You're very valued here. Is this about burnout? We can make accommodations. Maybe reduce your client load, or—"
But she was already packing up her bag. Pens, sticky notes, the dying succulent she'd been nursing for two years. Her hands moved on autopilot while her brain tried to catch up with what she'd just done.
I quit. I actually quit.
"Think about this over the weekend," Derek was saying. "Don't make any hasty decisions. We can work something out."
Marron slung her bag over her shoulder and stood. The fluorescent lights suddenly felt too bright, the air too thin.
"I already thought about it," she said. "For three weeks. I'm done thinking."
She walked out of Conference Room B, past her cubicle, past the motivational posters, past the break room where someone was microwaving fish. Again.
At the elevator, she pressed the down button and waited.
Freedom didn't feel triumphant. It felt hollow, like she'd punched through a wall only to find empty space on the other side.
The elevator doors closed, and Marron caught her reflection in the polished metal – pale, tired, wearing a blazer that cost more than she now had in her checking account.
What the hell did I just do?
She didn't remember the train ride home.
Marron tossed her purse on the couch and flopped face-first onto her bed. The lavender-scented sheets she'd bought during a brief "self-care" phase last spring welcomed her like an old friend.
It was official: she was free.
When her stomach started rumbling – had she even eaten breakfast? – she laughed into her mattress and mumbled, "Free and starving!"
The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd spent years eating sad desk lunches to maximize productivity, and now she had all the time in the world but no money for decent food.
She knocked on Kai's door to check if he'd already left for his shift. Her roommate worked nights at a 24-hour diner across town, but he usually cooked lunch before heading out. Amazing kimchi stew with oyster mushrooms, always with a portion left for her and a sticky note on top.
But when Kai didn't answer with his usual laid-back "Come in, door's open," she frowned and pushed the door open anyway.
Empty.
Right. He already went to work.
The kitchen was completely empty except for a cute panda-shaped note stuck to the fridge:
"Had to cover an emergency shift at work. Order something on me, sorry!
<3,K"
Under the note was a twenty-dollar bill and a stack of takeout menus held down by a banana magnet. Some of the menus had grease stains or water damage – casualties of many late-night food emergencies.
Marron flipped through them half-heartedly.
Thai Palace...way too expensive. Pizza Corner made me feel sick after I ordered their hamburger special.
Awww, Golden Dragon permanently closed? That sucks. I liked their orange chicken. They also had chocolate fortune cookies.
Then one made her pause.
The menu was printed on heavy, jet-black paper with glossy text that caught the kitchen light. Definitely cost more to print than the others – this wasn't some corner joint printing menus at Plinko's.
CHIK'N MURDER
So good, you'll never crave another bite anywhere else!
Marron held it up, squinting at the bizarre name.
"Edgy fried chicken? With a name that dark, they better have some serious charcoal-roasted flavor to back it up..."
Despite the ominous branding, the menu was surprisingly tasteful. Clean layout, mouth-watering food photography, and a simple selection:
Let's see. Crispy fried chicken, sweet BBQ chicken, and...haha, nice. There's charcoal-roasted chicken on here too.
It felt almost artisanal in its simplicity. Just chicken sandwiches, fries, and drinks. No overwhelming pages of options, no combo deals that made you do math to figure out the best value.
She skimmed the offerings until one caught her eye:
The Reaper Combo
One fried chicken sandwich, house fries, drink of choice.
Comes with a Limited-Edition Isekai Rebirth Card—positively life-changing!$11.99
Marron let out a soft snort. "What, do I ascend to another world if I choke on the pickle?"
Still, the photo showed the juiciest sandwich she'd ever seen.
Golden batter that looked like it would crackle when you bit into it, a brioche bun that seemed to glow under the studio lights, crispy edges that practically sparkled with oil and seasoning.
And for only $11.99? In this economy?
She looked at Kai's twenty-dollar bill, then back at the menu.
Eh, it's worth the laugh. Why the hell not.
She dialed the number and placed her order. The person who answered had a strangely melodic voice and confirmed her address without her having to repeat it.
"Thirty minutes," they said. "Enjoy your rebirth."
The line went dead before she could ask what that meant.
+
Exactly thirty minutes later, there was a knock on her door. They didn't ring the doorbell or the apartment buzzer. Instead, she heard three precise raps.
Marron looked through the peephole but saw nothing. She opened the door cautiously and found a delivery bag sitting on her doormat, but...
...there was no delivery person in sight.
That's... weird.
The bag was made of the same heavy black material as the menu, with "CHIK'N MURDER" embossed in silver letters. It felt surprisingly durable, almost luxurious.
She brought it inside and set it on the kitchen counter. The smell hit her immediately – savory, peppery, with an underlying warmth that made her mouth water in a way she hadn't experienced in months.
Maybe years.
She unpacked the order carefully. The sandwich was wrapped in black paper, the fries came in a small black container, and the drink was in an elegant glass bottle instead of a plastic cup.
They really commit to the aesthetic.
Marron sat at the kitchen counter and unwrapped the sandwich. It looked exactly like the photo – better, even. The batter was golden-brown and perfectly crispy, the bun was soft and glossy, and she could see tender chicken breast peeking out from the edges.
She took a bite.
The sandwich crackled between her teeth, releasing a flood of flavor that was everything the picture had promised – savory, spicy, piping hot. The chicken was impossibly tender, the bun was buttery perfection, and the seasoning had layers she could taste individually: paprika, garlic, something smoky and mysterious.
It tasted like someone actually cared about giving people real food.
On the second bite, something unexpected happened.
She remembered.
The scent, that peppery crunch, the way the flavors built on each other – something about it hit her chest like a physical force and brought her back.
She was ten years old, sitting on a milk crate in the back of the Louvel Family Diner, legs swinging while her mom worked the evening rush. The kitchen had been cramped and loud, filled with the sizzle of oil and the clatter of plates, but it had been alive in a way her corporate office had never been.
"Wanna taste?"
Her mom had been flipping chicken thighs in a cast-iron skillet, golden batter bubbling in the hot oil. She'd looked over her shoulder at Marron with flour in her hair and a tired but genuine smile.
Marron had nodded eagerly, and her mom had lifted one of the pieces with tongs, blew on it, and broke off a crispy corner for her daughter to try.
It hadn't been fancy. Not even that crispy by professional standards. But her mom had smiled like she was presenting a masterpiece to royalty, watching Marron's face carefully for her reaction.
"Good?"
"It's perfect, Mom."
And it had been. Not because of any special technique or expensive ingredients, but because it was made with love. Because someone had cared enough to do it right.
Marron blinked the memory away, suddenly back in her apartment kitchen. The sandwich in her hands was still warm and golden and objectively delicious, but now it made her feel cold inside. Like she'd lost something precious and never even noticed it was gone until this moment.
When had she stopped cooking?
When had she traded her mom's cast-iron skillet for sad desk salads and protein bars between meetings?
She set the sandwich down and reached for a napkin, her vision slightly blurry.
That's when she noticed something tucked underneath the food container – a small black card, matte finish, with text embossed in silver:
Rebirth Form
Name: ______
Age: ______
Desired Occupation: ______
We'll take care of the rest.
Sleep well, future you.
Marron stared at the card, wiping grease from her fingers.
They really leaned into the gimmick.
She glanced at the card, then at her phone showing seventeen missed calls from Derek, then back at the card. Her stomach was full for the first time in weeks, but her chest still ached with that hollow feeling that had been growing for months.
She remembered something one of the interns at her old office had whispered by the vending machine during one of her late-night overtime sessions:
"They say if you're desperate enough, you'll see it. An invitation. But it's not a real restaurant. It's Death, dressed up like a food truck, offering you a way out."
She'd laughed at the time. Urban legends were for people who had too much time on their hands.
Now, holding the card, she wasn't laughing.
She picked up a pen from her purse.
Click.
Then she paused and put it down.
Stared at the card for a long time.
What if I'm actually this pathetic? What if I'm so desperate for change that I'm willing to believe in magic takeout menus?
A beat passed.
Would that be so bad?
Another beat.
What do I have to lose?
She picked up the pen and started writing:
Name: Marron Louvel
Age:
She hesitated. Why not start over completely?
18
Desired Occupation:
She started to write "Chef" but her hand froze. That word still stuck in her throat like sticky rice.
Too much like Mom.
Too much pressure to live up to something she'd never been brave enough to try.
She erased it and wrote:
Food Stall Owner
It felt safer somehow. Less likely to disappoint anyone – especially herself.
She set the pen down and stared at what she'd written. Even her handwriting looked shaky and desperate.
This is insane.
The kitchen clock ticked once in the silence.
Then it stopped.
Marron glanced up at it. The hands were frozen at 9:23. The second hand wasn't moving.
The light above her buzzed once.
Then twice.
Then dimmed to a pale orange glow that made everything look sepia-toned, almost dreamlike.
"...Uh."
The air was getting colder now – winter-in-a-church-and-I'm-underdressed cold. Her skin prickled with goosebumps despite her sweater.
She looked around, suddenly hyperaware of how still everything had become. The hum of the refrigerator had cut out. The traffic noise from the street below had vanished. Even the shadows along the counter looked longer, sharper, like they were reaching toward her.
She picked up the card again.
It shimmered like it had caught firelight.
"What the he—"
Then, quietly, it crumbled into gold dust before dissolving into the air.
The world beneath her feet fell away, and Marron Louvel tumbled into nothing.