The smell of old grease and failure lingers in my hair.
I drop my resignation letter on Chef Laurent's stainless steel prep station. It's barely three AM. The kitchen of *L'Etoile* is a cold, metallic ghost town. No shouting. No clattering pans. No tickets screaming for a medium-rare ribeye that needed to be out five minutes ago. Just me and the hum of the industrial walk-in freezer.
"I'm done," I whisper to the empty room. My voice cracks.
I don't wait for a reply that isn't coming. I walk out the back door, the heavy iron handle cold against my palm. The Shanghai humidity hits me like a wet blanket, thick and smelling of smog and street food. My hands are shaking. They haven't stopped shaking for six months. Three years in this hellhole. Three years of seventy-hour weeks and being told I'm lucky to be here while my soul eroded into ash.
Twenty-four years old and I feel like an ancient machine. Components rusted. Gears grinding to a halt.
I make it back to my apartment on autopilot. It's a tiny concrete box on the twenty-second floor. The air is stale. Mold climbs the corner of the ceiling like a slow-moving green tide. I throw my knife roll on the table. The steel clinks through the leather wrap. Those knives cost more than my first car, and right now, I want to toss them into the river.
"Great job, Millie," I mutter, collapsing onto my bed. "You quit the best job you'll ever have. Now what? Rot?"
I stare at the ceiling for hours. Sleep doesn't come. My heart beats in my ears, a frantic, irregular rhythm. By ten AM, I'm vibrating with a weird, desperate energy. I can't sit still. If I sit still, the panic will catch up.
I need to clean.
I start with the kitchen. Scouring the stove. Polishing the tile. Moving on to the bathroom, scrubbing until the scent of bleach burns my lungs. Finally, I reach the closet. It's a deep, narrow space behind the bedroom, packed with boxes I haven't opened since I moved in.
I tear into it. Old textbooks. Winter coats I haven't worn in years. A bag of rice I bought six months ago and forgot about.
I reach the back wall. The floorboards here are different—darker wood, almost black. There's a draft. A cold, sharp breeze that smells of damp earth and something I can't identify. Not city air. Something cleaner. Something like crushed pine needles and rain.
"Where is that coming from?"
I push aside a heavy velvet coat—a gift from my mother I've always hated.
The back wall of the closet isn't there.
There's no wood. No drywall. There's just a shimmering veil of light, thin as a soap bubble. It hangs in the air, rippling like heat over pavement. Beyond the veil, I don't see the bricks of the building. I see green. Vibrant, neon-bright green that makes my eyes ache.
I reach out. My hand passes through the light without resistance.
Cold. It's biting cold, but refreshing. I pull my hand back. It's wet. I sniff my fingers. Water. Fresh, pure water.
My pulse hammers in my throat. I should call someone. I should run. I should be terrified. Instead, I find myself grabbing my knife roll. Instinct. Habit. If I'm going into a dark alley or a weird portal, I want my blades. I grab a sturdy backpack, toss in a half-full bottle of water, a bag of sea salt, and a lighter.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and step through.
The world tilts. For a second, there is no up or down, just a crushing pressure in my ears. Then, my boots hit solid ground.
I stumble forward, falling onto my hands and knees.
The air is thin and sharp. It smells of loam and flowers I don't recognize—heavy, cloying scents that remind me of lilies and rot. I look back. Behind me, the veil hangs in mid-air between two massive, ancient trees. I can see my closet. I see my messy bed and the dust motes dancing in the Shanghai smog.
The portal is open.
I stand up and turn around.
The forest is impossible. The trees are titans, their trunks as wide as houses, bark shimmering with a faint, iridescent silver. The leaves overhead are a deep violet, blocking out most of the sky. Strange, bird-like creatures with four wings flit between branches, making sounds like crystal bells.
Everything glows. The moss under my boots, the ferns brushing against my thighs, even the air seems charged with a faint blue light.
"Keep it together, Chen," I whisper. My voice sounds too loud in the stillness. "Just a dream. A very vivid, very cold dream."
I walk a few paces. My heart won't stop its frantic dance. I look at my hand. A small cut on my palm from a broken glass earlier this morning is still there. Red and stinging.
If this is a dream, it's a detailed one.
I look at the trees again. They look like redwood on Earth, but the silver bark is flaky and sweet-smelling. I peel a piece back. Sap oozes out—thick, clear, and smelling intensely of vanilla and smoke.
I hesitate. Then, I touch a drop to my tongue.
The flavor explodes. It's not just vanilla. It's toasted marshmallows, bourbon, and mountain air. It sends a shock of heat through my body. My vision sharpens. The fatigue from my three-AM shift vanishes in a heartbeat.
"Holy crap."
This isn't sap. This is an ingredient. My chef brain, dormant and exhausted for months, suddenly sparks to life. Imagine this reduced. Mixed with a heavy cream or drizzled over charred fruit.
A twig snaps to my left.
I freeze. My hand goes to the buckle of my knife roll.
A creature steps out from behind a silver tree. It looks like a deer, but its coat is a mottled indigo and its antlers are made of what looks like translucent crystal. It watches me with six golden eyes. It doesn't look afraid. It looks hungry.
It lets out a low, vibrating growl. Deer shouldn't growl.
It charges.
I don't think. I dive to the right, rolling through the damp moss. The creature slams into the tree where I was standing, the impact shaking the violet leaves.
"Move!"
I scramble toward the portal. My closet is right there. I can see my velvet coat. I can see safety.
But a massive, thorny vine snakes across the path, blocking my way. The indigo deer-thing turns, its crystal antlers glowing with a harsh red light. It lowers its head for another charge.
I'm cornered. I'm a line chef with a caffeine addiction and zero combat training. I'm going to die in a closet in a forest that doesn't exist.
My fingers find the strap of my knife roll. I rip it open.
My fingers wrap around my favorite cleaver—eight inches of hand-forged Japanese steel. It's heavy. Familiar. It balances perfectly in my palm. I've butchered ten thousand pounds of meat with this blade.
"Come on, then," I snarl. Fear has a way of turning into anger if you push it hard enough.
The creature leaps.
I drop low. As it passes over me, I swing the cleaver with every ounce of frustration I've stored for three years. The blade bites deep into the creature's underside. It's like cutting through soft butter. The resistance is almost non-existent.
Bright blue blood sprays across the moss.
The creature hits the ground and slides, letting out a haunting, flute-like wail. It tries to stand, its indigo fur staining dark purple. Then, it collapses. Its six eyes dim, the gold fading into a dull grey.
Silence returns to the forest.
I'm gasping for air. My heart is trying to kick its way out of my ribs. My hands are covered in blue slime.
"I killed it," I breathe. "I actually killed it."
I look at the cleaver. The steel is humming. A faint blue glow clings to the blade, vibrating against my skin. It's a warm, pulsing sensation that feels like a caffeine high without the jitters.
I look back at the portal. It's still there. The closet. Shanghai. My shitty life.
Then I look at the dead creature. It's massive. Probably two hundred pounds of meat. Indigo meat that smells like blackberries and steak. My stomach gives a violent, loud growl.
I haven't eaten a real meal in three days.
I look at my knife roll. My pans. The forest of infinite, glowing ingredients.
"Just one meal," I tell myself. "Then I go home."
I step toward the carcass. My hands aren't shaking anymore.
I start to skin the beast. The pelt peels away easily, revealing meat that is a deep, marbled violet. The fat is pure white, smelling of cold cream. My mouth waters. It's insane. I'm covered in alien blood and I'm hungry.
I clear a small patch of ground. I use the dry, silver bark from the titan trees to build a small fire. The wood catches instantly, the flames a beautiful, clear azure.
I cut a thick slice of the indigo haunch.
The meat feels different than beef. More dense. There's a slight shimmer to the fibers. I sprinkle it with the sea salt I brought from Earth. Simple. Pure.
I don't have a pan, so I skewer the meat on a cleaned branch.
The second the meat hits the blue flame, the aroma fills the clearing. It's overwhelming. It smells like a campfire in a forest of fruit trees. The fat renders out, dripping into the fire and making it crackle with sparks of gold.
I wait until the outside is charred and the inside is still a pulsing violet.
I take the first bite.
The world disappears. The flavor is a violent, beautiful assault. It's savory, salty, and sweet all at once. The meat melts on my tongue like Wagyu, but with a complex, spicy kick that lingers in the back of my throat.
But it's more than flavor.
As I swallow, a wave of heat rushes through my limbs. I feel my muscles tighten. My hearing sharpens until I can hear the sap running through the trees. My vision becomes HD. Every leaf, every bug, every speck of dust in the air is crystal clear.
A notification doesn't appear in my vision—this isn't a game. But I *feel* the change. I feel stronger. Faster. Like the exhaustion of a thousand shifts has been scrubbed away and replaced with raw power.
"Earth food doesn't do this," I mutter, staring at the half-eaten skewer.
This meat is medicine. It's magic.
I finish the whole steak in minutes. I've never felt so alive. My skin is glowing. The cut on my hand has vanished, replaced by smooth, unscarred skin.
I stand up, stretching my limbs. I feel like I could run for miles.
Then, I hear it.
Distant voices. The clank of metal. People?
I freeze. The rule of the woods: if you aren't the hunter, you're the prey. I look at my portal. It's a glowing beacon in the dim forest. If anyone sees it, they'll know. They'll find Earth. They'll find my home.
"Shit."
I scramble to kick dirt over the fire. I grab my backpack and knife roll. I have to hide the meat.
The voices are getting closer. They're speaking a language that sounds like song and gravel mixed together. Harsh. Beautiful. I shouldn't understand it, but I do.
"—tracks are fresh. The Star-Deer shouldn't have been taken down this easily."
"Maybe a pack of Shadow-Wolves?"
"No. This was a blade. A clean cut."
The bushes at the edge of the clearing rustle.
I dive behind the root of a titan tree, my heart slamming against my ribs. I peer through a gap in the wood.
Four men step into the clearing. They wear leather armor reinforced with metal plates. One carries a massive shield. Another has a staff tipped with a glowing white crystal. But it's the leader who stops my breath.
He's tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair pulled back from a sharp, scarred face. His armor is more ornate—engraved silver and midnight-blue steel. He carries a longsword at his hip that looks like it weighs more than I do.
He stops at the dead deer. He kneels, his gloved hand touching the blue blood.
"Still warm," he says. His voice is deep, a baritone that vibrates in the air.
He looks around the clearing. His eyes are the color of a storm cloud. He looks right at the tree where I'm hiding.
"Show yourself," he commands. "The penalty for poaching in the Royal Forest of Valdris is death."
Poaching. Valdris. Royal.
My brain is screaming. I need to leave. Now.
I shift my weight to run for the portal. My boot catches a loose branch. *Snap.*
The man in the silver armor is moving before the sound finishes. He doesn't run; he blurs.
I don't even make it three steps.
Cold steel touches my throat.
The man is standing right behind me. He's towering. He smells of leather, metal, and that same sharp pine scent from the woods. He doesn't press the blade, but I can feel its weight. One twitch and I'm a ghost.
"Who are you?" he asks. His voice is dangerously quiet. "And what manner of strange magic did you use to kill this beast with such a small, crude blade?"
I look down at my cleaver, still in my hand.
Then I look at my closet. The portal is right behind him. I just need him to move three feet to the left.
"I'm a chef," I croak. My voice sounds small.
The man pauses. He looks at me—my modern clothes, my stained cleaver, my terrified expression.
"A chef?" he repeats. "In the middle of the King's private hunt?"
I swallowed hard. "I'm lost."
"You're more than lost, little girl," he says. He pulls me away from the portal, toward the center of the clearing. He doesn't see the shimmering veil behind him.
His men gather around. The one with the staff holds it up. The white crystal flares, bathing me in a blinding light.
"Commander," the staff-man says. "She has no mana signature. None at all. She's... hollow."
"Impossible," the leader says. "She took down a Star-Deer alone. Even I struggle with those."
He looks at me again. His eyes scan my face, my clothes, my shaking hands. He lingers on my cleaver.
"Where did you come from?"
I look at the portal.
It's fading.
The shimmering light is growing dim. It's closing.
"Please," I say, a note of real desperation in my voice. "I just need to go home."
The man reaches for my knife roll. "You aren't going anywhere until the Guild decides what to do with you."
Behind him, the portal let out a soft *pop*.
I look.
The forest clearing is solid wood. The velvet coat is gone. My apartment is gone.
I'm trapped.
I look at the commander. He's watching me with a mix of suspicion and something that might be curiosity.
"What's your name, 'Chef'?"
"Millie," I whisper. "Millie Chen."
"Well, Millie Chen," he says, sheathing his sword. The metal rings in the quiet air. "You just poached the rarest animal in the kingdom. My name is Dorian Ashford. And you're coming with us."
He grabs my arm. His grip is iron.
I don't fight. I can't. Not yet. I look at the dead Star-Deer, the violet meat still glistening in the fading light.
I might be a prisoner. I might be in another world.
But I've still got my knives. And I've still got my appetite.
"One thing, Dorian," I say, my voice steadying.
He looks back at me, a brow arched in surprise.
"That meat is going to spoil if you don't dress it properly."
He stares at me for a long, silent beat. Then, to my shock, he lets out a short, bark-like laugh.
"A chef indeed."
He turns to his men. "Load the beast. We march back to the capital."
As they drag me through the forest, I look over my shoulder one last time. The clearing is empty. The portal is gone.
The air is cold. The violet trees are strange. And I have absolutely no idea where I am.
But as my stomach gives another small rumble, I realize I'm not as scared as I should be.
For the first time in years, I'm hungry. And in this world, that might be the most dangerous thing about me.