the moment players step inside The Crimson Kitchen, they’re greeted by a suffocating warmth—like a stove left burning too long—mixed with a metallic scent that clings to the back of the throat. The dining room is bathed in a deep, unsettling red glow, as though the lights themselves are bleeding. Tables sit perfectly set for guests who never arrived, their silverware arranged with ritualistic precision. From the kitchen beyond the swinging doors comes a chorus of sounds: the rhythmic chop of a knife, the hiss of something boiling over, and the low, wet scrape of metal across bone. None of it matches the empty room. Shadows move where no staff should be, stretching too long across the tiled floor before snapping back into place. The walls are lined with framed menus from decades past, each one more disturbing than the last—dishes crossed out in thick crimson strokes, replaced with handwritten additions that look suspiciously fresh. A faint trail of red leads toward the pantry, where the air grows colder and the smell sharper, as if the ingredients stored there were never meant for human consumption. Despite the dread, the restaurant feels alive. Chairs shift when no one is near them. Plates warm to the touch. And somewhere deep within the kitchen, a chef hums a tune that no living person remembers
