The Colonel's Kitchen

The knife falls like lightning. *Thwack!* The cold steel buries itself in the oak chopping board, millimeters from Ben’s trembling fingers. A bead of sweat slides down his forehead, pooling on the edge of the blade. “Ben… is that an onion or a casualty of war?” Zoe’s voice slithers into the room—cool, sharp, and directly behind him. Ben freezes. His breath hitches in his throat. He reaches up to adjust the oversized white toque that has slipped, half-blinding him. “It’s… surrealist dicing, Ms. Zoe. A deconstructive technique to liberate the ingredient's core essence.” Zoe raises her left eyebrow slowly. Her hawk-like eyes pierce right through his mask of feigned confidence. *Damn it. She sees right through me. She knows my hands are shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.* She takes a step forward. Her stilettos click against the marble floor with a rhythmic, taunting precision. *Click. Click. Click.* “The Colonel is watching the live feed from his office. Do not disgrace your legendary genes, Ben. Or what’s left of them.” She sweeps out of the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of sharp Parisian perfume and enough psychological pressure to crush a tank. *Legendary genes? M…