Chapter 5 A Taste of Trouble

"But what about the dish he hates?"

The young woman glanced nervously around the table. "We've figured out his favorite, but what if someone picks his least favorite? They'll die, won't they?"

The excitement in the room faded. We'd been so busy congratulating ourselves that we'd almost forgotten dinner came with a death sentence.

I raised my hand. "Actually, I might know."

Everyone turned toward me.

"I found a photo album in the library. It was full of birthday pictures of a little boy, from his first birthday all the way into his twenties." I paused, recalling the photographs. "There was a cake in every picture, but not a single one had been touched. Not even a slice."

Claire frowned. "You think the boy was the boss?"

"Well, it's his mansion. Unless he's secretly collecting some random kid's birthday photos, I'd say that's a pretty safe bet."

I pointed toward the menu. "My money's on the fruitcake. He probably hates it."

Nobody argued. Unfortunately, identifying the dangerous dish created an even bigger problem.

If every player had to present a dish, who was going to volunteer for the one that would almost certainly get them killed?

After a tense discussion, we decided to draw lots.

A young man with a buzz cut drew the short straw.

His face went pale, and his fingers tightened around the piece of paper.

For some reason, he glanced at me.

At exactly eight o'clock, dinner began.

Lucian sat at the head of a long dining table, black mist drifting lazily around him. The six dishes were laid out before us, and every player looked as though they'd rather be anywhere else.

Claire stepped forward first, carrying the creamy vegetable stew.

"I present this dish to you."

A cheerful chime rang out.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[YOU HAVE PRESENTED THE BOSS'S FAVORITE DISH.]

[YOU HAVE EARNED HIS FAVOR.]

[ADDITIONAL WISHES: +1.]

[PLEASE CHOOSE HOW YOU WOULD LIKE TO DIE.]

Claire's eyes lit up. She barely waited for the system to finish before speaking.

"I choose to die from something outside this dungeon's influence. No boss, monster, disaster, accident, or dungeon rule can harm me. Even if I break the rules, I must remain completely unharmed!"

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then the meaning of her words sank in.

Claire had promised to use the extra wish to help everyone survive. Instead, she'd just made herself practically untouchable.

Lucian inclined his head.

"As you wish."

"You said you'd get us out of here!" someone shouted.

"We trusted you!"

Claire turned around with a cold smile. "Please. Did you honestly expect me to risk my life for a bunch of strangers?"

Her voice dripped with contempt. "This is a death game. Survival comes first. If you're stupid enough to hand someone else your best chance of staying alive, that's your problem."

The others glared at her, but nobody dared do anything while the dinner was still underway.

I had to admit, she knew how to play people. Most of the selfish bastards I'd met in my previous life at least bought me dinner before screwing me over.

Claire had managed to screw everyone over during dinner.

Unfortunately, we still had a meal to finish.

One by one, the remaining players presented their dishes.

Escargot. Caesar salad. Roasted lamb chops.

Each time, the system remained silent. No rewards, no punishments. Lucian simply sat there, looking like the world's least enthusiastic restaurant critic.

Then it was my turn.

I reached for the pan-seared cod.

Before my fingers could touch the plate, someone slammed into me from the side.

I lost my balance and hit the floor. By the time I looked up, the buzz-cut guy had snatched the cod and rushed toward Lucian.

"I present the fish!"

I stared at him in disbelief.

He'd drawn the fruitcake, but apparently he'd decided that honoring the lottery was optional when his own life was on the line.

He turned toward me with a smug grin.

"Claire's right. It's every man for himself. Why the hell should I die just because I drew the short straw?"

I pushed myself to my feet.

"Because that was the deal?"

"Too bad." He shrugged. "You couldn't even protect your own dish. That's your problem, not mine."

He looked me up and down with open contempt.

"You're useless anyway. Might as well make yourself useful for once."

I glanced around the table, but nobody came forward.

Some players avoided my eyes, while others watched with the same detached curiosity they'd shown when the blond guy died on our first day.

Apparently, being surrounded by people didn't make dying any less lonely.

Above our heads, the live chat was having a wonderful time.

[LIVE CHAT: HERE WE GO! Classic player betrayal!]

[LIVE CHAT: Can't blame him. Nobody wants to die over a piece of cake.]

[LIVE CHAT: Survival of the fittest, baby. Weak players don't deserve to live.]

[LIVE CHAT: Reminder: Last time someone presented the boss with fruitcake, they ended up becoming the cake.]

[LIVE CHAT: Place your bets! How's this girl going to die?]

The system chimed.

[PLAYER IVY QUINN, IT IS YOUR TURN TO PRESENT A DISH.]

I looked down at the table.

Only the fruitcake remained.

Of course it did.

I'd survived being dragged into a death game, getting rejected by its final boss, and being knocked unconscious in his bedroom.

And now I was apparently going to die because some asshole had stolen my fish.

I slowly turned toward Lucian.

He sat at the head of the table, perfectly still, as though none of this had anything to do with him.

For some reason, that irritated me more than it should have.

Fine. If I was going to die anyway, I might as well satisfy my curiosity.

I'd been wondering what the final boss tasted like ever since we met. Sweet? Bitter? Something else entirely?

There was only one way to find out.

I plucked a bright red cherry from the fruitcake and slipped it between my lips. Then I dragged my fingers through the thick white frosting, coating them in cream.

The room fell quiet as I stepped away from the table.

Lucian didn't move.

I walked toward him, one slow step at a time.

"So," I murmured, a smile curling at the corner of my mouth.

"Would you like the cream first, or the cherry?"

I leaned a little closer.

"...Or me?"