Little Nightmares Chef Real Face 소설 & 이야기

“You’re unreal.” He laughs. “I keep telling you that I’m real.” “No, like... this is something out of a movie.” “Then welcome to the movie.” We start eating. Pasta, grilled chicken, veggies, fresh juice. I take one bite and literally close my eyes. “Mmm. This is fire.” “Told you.” “Where’d you get it?” “Had a chef come in before I picked you up.” “You hired a chef?” “Yup.” I shake my head, laughing. “You’re too much.”

They were preparing for breakfast tomorrow and to my surprise – their faces lit up at her arrival. “Hi everyone.” She waved animatedly. “Lila.” They rejoiced in greeting. The head chef was dressed in black, tucked in the farthest corner of the kitchen near the walk-in freezer while ticking off items on his checklist. “Evangeline, I hope it’s not a midnight snack yet again.” He teased. She scoffed playfully, “I’m a night owl, my appetite is at its peak when the clock strikes twelve.” He hums, “Are you Cinderella? Do you also have a pumpkin carriage that disappears at midnight?”

I thought we were still in the evening. "So, everyone is sleeping." "Apparently." He dropped me on the kitchen counter and got between my legs, "What do you want to eat?" "I don't know. "Why don't Chef Raphael surprise me?" He chuckled, "Chef Raphael's kind of option is always difficult from yours." "Why don't you show me? Are you hesitating?" I smirked at him. "No, never." And he covered my lips with him.

He had crawled to the portable television, changed the channel from Love Island to the only other thing queued on Mercy's tablet, and pressed play. The First Dreamer's attention snapped away from Jack and Katherine with the abruptness of a child distracted by a shiny object. The show Marcus had selected was Season One of an obscure cooking competition called Kitchen Nightmares, in which an angry British chef screamed at incompetent restaurant owners. The Dreamer had never encountered the concept of someone being furious about improperly stored scallops. It was entranced. In the Source Code, the Dreamer's attention vacated Jack's area like a spotlight swinging to a different stage. The giant

I had to appear strong, look the part— Sucking in a deep breath in a bid to pull more air into my lungs that kept constricting, I turned, poking my head inside the huge kitchen’s space, eyes landing on Chef WizChop who leaned against the counter, staring at the steam from the coffee that rose to the air before his eyes slid up to mine. My heart slammed against my ribcage and I forced out a smile that didn't reach my eyes as he squinted his eyes at me suspiciously. “Why are you here? Shouldn't you be in bed”

"My mom is stuck in a wheelchair forever because of you! My life is ruined forever because of you! I can't stand looking at your fùcking filthy face! You don't deserve to be cooking happily in the kitchen. You deserve to be locked up somewhere in a small stinky room with no sun. Atleast there, you won't kill someone innocent or force them to a wheelchair forever. Prison is your place." My heart stops. **** My heart is pounding so hard and loud when I wake up from the nightmare. My nightdress is soaked in sweat. My hands are still shaking. My fingers are trembling. My hair is a mess. One side of my pillow is wet with sweat. I sit up in bed and bury my face in my hands, trying to shake off the

"You did what you had to. You were only trying to keep me safe." He was close to me now. He nodded and tucked a hair behind my ear. "I could not sleep either…" He whispered. "Nightmares?" I asked. He chuckled. "I am the Nightmare, Yulia…. I couldn't possibly have them," he boasted. "What kept me up at night was someone else." He looked into my eyes. “It was you…” I cleared my throat nervously as my brows shut up my face. "Me? How?" "That kiss," He said. "I dreamt of your lips all night."

“If you are innocent, then you don’t have to worry about dying. That is all you need to know for now.” I finished the soup and took the last piece of meat from the serving bowl. The chef in this house moved like a panther. He looked like he was in his late thirties. Half of his face, including his body, was burnt. He wore a patch on his right eye. I saw him once today when he prepared lunch. I only went to the bathroom for a moment and before I knew it, he was already gone.

"Around eight or nine, which even then, it's rare to have them that late in life." He frowned down at the ground. "Did you remember the dreams?" "Never." "I remember mine." I held my breath, my chest built with pressure as it swelled inside my body, threatening to shake my careful control, I steeled my expression. "Last night's? Do you remember it?" He gave a silent nod. "Are we talking nightmare where you're getting chased by a giant marshmallow - you know, something that won't ever happen - or something real?" "Real." He swallowed, his hands started to shake like the week before, only this time, I knew he wanted comfort - not a sugar fix.

From teenagers to old people, they could be found here enjoying their meal or having a drink in the small bar we had at the end of the room. It took ten minutes for Ricky, our chef, who knew nothing about food, to prepare the food for the table, so I wasn’t eager to visit once again. But it was my job that I couldn’t skip just because someone from my past was sitting here with a beautiful blond in his arms. I pasted the practiced smile on my face, took the plates, and walked to their table with confidence. The imposter that I wear occasionally or in situations like this.